


Statistic

by patchfire, raving_liberal



Series: Story of Three Boys [38]
Category: Glee
Genre: Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, Self-Harm, Slash, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchfire/pseuds/patchfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Downward spiral; how it comes to this. Reactions, ripple effects, ring pops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attempt

**Author's Note:**

> **Authors' Soapbox:** Resources. Use them if you need them. [National Domestic Violence Hotline](http://www.thehotline.org/)/1−800−799−SAFE(7233) (US); [international DV resources](http://www.vaonline.org/dv.html); [Gay Men's Domestic Violence Project](http://gmdvp.org/); [The Trevor Project](http://www.thetrevorproject.org/)/1-866-488-7386 (for youth in crisis). Special thank you to the wonderful **david_of_oz** for slogging through the massiveness that is this week's postings and improving them significantly.
> 
>  
> 
> [Playlist for "Attempt"](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLF851A32CB35C665D)

Casey hates long weekends. The more days he’s at home, the more ways in which he can screw up, the more things he does wrong, and it’s already been worse this week than he ever remembers it being. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what he’s done, but it’s like some kind of barrier is breaking down, the tiny and thin shield, however illusory, that made him believe that there was a line his father wouldn’t cross. Casey feels the shield disappearing, tearing like paper, and it’s four days at home with Mick before Casey can return to school and eight hours a day of not having to watch every step.

Only he does have to watch every step at school now, because he’s dragged David into his mess, David who won’t just let it go. Casey spent the rest of Wednesday and all of Thursday hiding from David, leaving class early, waiting in bathrooms, slipping into empty classrooms until just before the bell, and the worst part is that Casey knows the only thing that will make him feel even the slightest bit better—about this, about himself, about anything—is David. David, who didn’t sign up for this, who was just trying to be a nice guy and look out for Casey, and now, this, all heaped on him.

Casey ruins the lives of all the people he loves. He doesn’t know how not to.

His dad’s due home from work any minute, and his mom actually has a few hours off for once, so the tension level in the house is high. Casey and Amy are waiting, like watching the timer counting down on that television show about the timer counting down, and then boom. Mick is the boom. Mick is home in the next fifteen minutes and Casey is a coward, so he grabs his backpack and stuffs books into it, any books, it doesn’t even matter, and he heads out to the kitchen.

“Mom?” Casey says, in his liar’s voice. That’s what Mick calls it, a liar’s voice, just like his mother’s. “I need to go to the library. It’s for school. I have a project due on Tuesday.”

“Oh?” Amy startles a little, but that’s the most reaction he gets. “Okay. Back before dark.”

“I will, mom,” he answers, and he feels like she’s staring at him. He makes himself look away, pulls on his coat, and slings on his backpack and he heads out the door. The slush on the side of the road is pretty slushy, not slippery like it’ll get after dark, so he accepts soaked shoes and hems of his jeans over falling on his face.

The walk to the library isn’t that long, and he stays there until the sky starts to change color and he knows he has to walk back to make it in before dark. It’s a lot colder on the walk back and his fingers and toes really hurt before he makes it back to his house. He opens the door quietly, peeking in through the crack and gauging the room, always trying to figure out where he stands, what he needs to say.

“That you, sissyboy?”

Casey walks all the way into the house. “Yes, dad. It’s me.”

“Where’d you go?” Mick snorts. “Not that I care. Stay out all night, if you ask me.”

“Library. Mom said I could,” Casey says. “I have a project. For school.”

“Always doing work for _school_ ,” Mick sneers. “They don’t give out prizes for being pansy–ass nerds, Casey O’Brien.”

“No, dad, they don’t,” Casey agrees. “I’m sorry, I’ll just go put my stuff away and, and I’ll fix you another drink, okay?”

“You a waitress now?” Mick’s smile is unpleasant. “Bet you’d like that, men leering at you.”

“I… no, dad. _No_ , I don’t want anything like that!” Casey’s heart starts pounding. Mick knows. He _knows_. Casey doesn’t know how he knows, but he _knows_.

Mick picks up an empty beer can and tosses it towards Casey. “Throw this away. Place is a pigsty. Don’t you _women_ know how to keep a place clean?”

Casey scurries to get the beer can and doesn’t even take it to the kitchen. He just runs as fast as he can back to his room, can still in hand, and closes his door behind him… but _quietly_. In his room, Casey starts pacing back and forth, pausing at the door to listen for footsteps. The room is so small, he doesn’t have far to walk, but he has to keep moving, has to stay in motion, because every thing in him is warning him to get out of there now, and everything in him knows that isn’t going to happen.

He doesn’t hear footsteps, though, just the sound of Mick’s news program being cranked up and a shout to Amy to bring Mick another goddamn beer. Casey can’t even breathe a sigh of relief, because that would be stupid, that would be tempting fate. Mick _knows_. Casey pulls out his phone and starts pressing numbers, then stops himself so suddenly that it’s like someone slapped the phone out of his hand, he drops it so fast.

What is he doing? He can’t call David. He can’t do that to David, put more of this on him. David’s already too upset about it, and there’s nothing he can _do_ for Casey, so it’s wrong to put him in a position like that, make him upset and angry and not able to fix it, when fixing it is all David has ever tried to do for Casey.

Casey slumps against his dresser, sliding down it to the ground in front of his closet. He reaches back with one hand, feeling underneath the dresser for the pack of cigarettes, and pulls them out. He chants “oh god oh god oh god” to himself as he adds to the cluster of burns that he’s accumulated this week, and when _that_ finally hurts enough, he feels a little calmer, but not much. He pulls David’s hoodie on over his clothes, doesn’t even take off his shoes, just drapes himself in the hoodie that still smells like David inside the hood and around the seams of the shoulders. It smells like safety and love, and Casey huddles under his covers until he falls asleep crying.

 

Mick’s not up yet when Casey wakes up in the morning. He tiptoes into the kitchen, still wearing the clothes he slept in, except for the hoodie. That gets carefully folded and hidden under Casey’s pillow where it’s not visible to anyone looking in the room. A hoodie that size could really only belong to one person Casey knows, and whatever is coming his way, he’s not letting it splash on David.

The fridge is mostly empty: half a case of beer, a mostly–empty two liter of Pepsi, a jar of pickles, grape jelly, milk. Casey sniffs the milk and it doesn’t smell off yet, so he eats a small bowl of cereal. Mick said he didn’t care if Casey stayed out all night; maybe Casey should take that as an invitation to leave, to go and not come back until everyone’s asleep. Stupid idea, but anything to not be in the house when Mick wakes up, hungover and mean and still knowing whatever it is that he knows that has him finally figuring Casey out.

Casey goes out and he walks. He just walks as far as he feels like he can go without getting turned around, cutting across blocks and up, killing time. His wet shoes rub blisters on his feet and he has to go into a gas station for a few minutes to warm up. The clerk looks at Casey suspiciously, like he might steal something, but then Casey thinks she notices his coat or his lack of gloves or any of the things that people notice, because her face softens and she makes him take a huge cup of coffee—freshly brewed and loaded with as many packets of creamer and sugar as he could fit in it without overflowing—with him when he leaves. It’s the best damn thing he’s tasted in days, sweet and good, and it’s _hot_.

The coffee hurts Casey’s mostly–empty stomach, but it’s kind of a pleasant pain. By the time he finishes the cup, he feels like he’s vibrating from the caffeine and the sugar, and things don’t seem so bleak. Maybe Mick doesn’t know. He’s always called Casey a sissy, a pansy, a girl, a queer. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything other than Mick is drinking more lately, that work isn’t coming as regularly. Maybe it’s not Casey’s secrets, but his attitude. He’s too happy, he’s going out too often, he’s not taking care of things fast enough or well enough. Casey resolves to do better, be more respectful, and hope that Mick will just accept it and not look any more deeply into Casey’s motives.

By the time he winds up at Robb Park, it’s around noon. Casey pulls out his phone to check the time. Mick’s probably up by now, and Casey wonders if he’s even noticed Casey isn’t there. He goes to the swing set and sits, kicking his legs, tracing designs in the icy woodchippings with the toe of his shoe. On an impulse, he flings back his body and sends the swing moving forward, rocking it higher and higher on each pass. The air whipping by his face is so cold it burns, but it feels good, too. He feels lighter, freer.

“Look at the homo on the swings.”

Casey startles and pitches forward off the swing, landing hard on the woodchippings. They dig into his palms and his knees. He pushes himself up off the ground and looks around to see Fordham standing alone by the slide. Fordham spits, a long dark stream of liquid.

“Oops. Scare you?” Fordham laughs around a mouthful of dip, and it’s awful, just awful. “Pussy,” he snorts, spitting again.

Casey looks around for somebody, anybody, but there’s never anybody. He starts walking backwards, this strange idea of how, if he keeps doing that, Fordham might not realize that Casey’s getting further way until he’s far enough to bolt.

“Aw, what’s the matter, Cay–See?” Fordham asks, stretching out Casey’s name so long that Casey is reminded, absurdly, of David and the way he makes the one clipped syllable of Casey’s name sound so perfect, the antithesis of the way Fordham and Mick say it. “Come on over here, I wanna talk to you.”

“No, I don’t want to,” Casey says, still backing up. “I’m just gonna go home.”

“Fucker, you get your ass over here,” Fordham says, and Casey stops backing up. He stops, and he actually steps _towards_ Fordham, his feet overriding his brain. “That’s right, over here.”

Casey walks, step by tiny step, to Fordham. “What do you want? I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You got any cash on you?”

“What?” Casey asks, confused. “No, I don’t have any money.”

“Bullshit, what’ve you got on you?” Fordham spits again, so close to Casey’s foot that it splatters on his shoe.

“I don’t,” Casey insists. “I don’t have anything. I don’t have any money.”

“The fuck you don’t,” Fordham says. “I saw you throwing away that coffee cup, and I know you didn’t buy that shit with your good looks, queer.”

“I don’t have anything,” Casey repeats, eyes darting around the park, looking for somewhere to run.

“Aw man,” Fordham says, and he sounds so much like he’s actually sorry that Casey pauses, he loses that tiny chance to flee or move, then Fordham hand flies out and Casey’s sprawling on the ground face first. “Let’s try this again. Money. Cough it up.”

Casey spits woodchips out of his mouth and tries to push himself up on his arms, but Fordham’s foot catches him, and he’s down again, coughing in the wet wood. He feels Fordham’s hands digging into his jacket pockets, and he twists to get away, not because there’s anything in the pockets, but because Fordham’s hands on him feel so _wrong_.

Casey manages to scoot himself along the ground enough to get up on his knees, and he thinks for a second that he’s gotten away, but Fordham’s hands connect with his back, shoving him hard, and Casey crashes into the side of the slide. His forehead collides with the slide, hard, and his vision goes white around the edges as Fordham rifles through Casey’s other jacket pocket, patting his jeans for a wallet he doesn’t find.

“Fucking useless,” Fordham says, giving Casey another shove into the slide. Casey’s nose smashes against it and starts to bleed a little, and Fordham makes a noise of disgust. “Get the fuck out out of here before you bleed all over me and give me AIDS or somethin’.”  
He spits and the wad of chewing tobacco hits Casey’s jeans, leaving a dark stain on the leg.

Casey runs. Blood streaming down his face and his vision fuzzy, he runs. He wants to cry, but he’s too scared to cry, so he just runs and bleeds and doesn’t look back until he’s at his house, exhausted and cold, panting, the blood dripping down his face and all over his shirt and his jacket.

When Casey lets himself into the house, Mick is in his recliner, watching college basketball, and it’s only 1:30 or so, but there’s already a family of empty beer cans huddling together for warmth on Mick’s side table. Maybe Casey can slip by without being noticed, without Mick looking up at him, if Casey just wears his jacket back to his bedroom. He needs to clean the blood off it, anyway.

“Why’re you being so damn loud?” Mick demands.

“I’m sorry dad,” Casey answers, quietly, automatically. Mick’s still not looking in his direction; he can still make it back to his room.

“What was that? Come here and face me like a man.” He snorts. “If you even know what that means.”

There’s no point in answers, really, so Casey just lets his shoulder slump. He reaches up to try to wipe the blood off his face, but there’s just too much of it, so he walks over to Mick. “I’m here, dad.”

Mick looks up, taking in Casey’s appearance, and his face twists into a grotesque smile. “Oh, you done got beat up?”

“A kid from school tried to take my money,” Casey says, forcing himself to stand up straight, to look Mick in the eye.

Mick barks out a short laugh. “What money? Kid stupider than you, that’s a first.”

“No money. There wasn’t any money,” Casey answers, and for some reason, his dad’s laugh make him laugh a little in return. He can’t help it. “He is pretty stupid.”

Mick keeps laughing, a jarring, unpleasant sound. “Yeah, no money. Spent it all on shit for you and Amy.” He shakes his head and sneers. “Get out of my sight.”

Casey doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s gone before Mick’s head turns away, back in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. The knot on his forehead doesn’t look so bad, really, and maybe it won’t bruise too much and it’ll be mostly gone by Tuesday. Anyway, his hair covers it. Casey washes the blood off his face; his nose doesn’t look so bad, either. Casey’s certainly had worse. This wasn’t all that bad. This was nothing, really.

He spends the rest of the day in his room, sketching and rereading his comic books and ignoring the string of texts from David, not checking his email because he doesn’t want to have to ignore two places worth of stuff, just in case. _Just stop, David. Just go. There’s nothing here but trouble._

Still, Casey pulls on the black hoodie, and the harder he ignores David, the harder he thinks about him, sitting there smelling his scent, the faint memory of some kind of aftershave and that woodsy warm smell that’s just _David_. Casey’s thinking so hard, he has a momentary flash of fear, that his thoughts are being broadcast through the house, that they’re interrupting the television signal and that’s how Mick knows. And _is_ that what Mick knows? The thing that gives Casey away is his stupid crush on his best friend, something that’s probably so obvious that Casey doesn’t know how David doesn’t notice?

Casey and Amy eat dinner at the kitchen table, some kind of Hamburger Helper, though Casey thinks it’s ridiculous how they label the flavors. They all taste the same. Mick is sprawled out in the chair, silent for once, asleep or passed out, Casey doesn’t know or care, as long as he’s not in there when Mick wakes up. He helps his mom pack up the rest of dinner into containers, shoulders her gently to the side to wash the dishes. She doesn’t protest, but he doesn’t expect her to.

By eight, Casey gives up pretending he’s interested in staying awake. His head hurts, so he pulls the hoodie back on, pulls the covers up over himself, and lies there, awake but exhausted, for who knows how long before sleep comes.

 

The yard has a new crust of snow when Casey wakes up, so he folds up David’s hoodie and stows it away, puts on a second pair of socks and his filthy jeans from the day before, and the warmest sweatshirt he can find. He digs his Scandanavian hat out of his drawer; Mick hates it, says it makes Casey look like a retarded fairy, and Casey usually doesn’t wear it around the house, but it looks _cold_ and he wants to have the front shoveled before Mick gets up.

Casey doesn’t mind it, shoveling snow. The work is good, it gets him moving and gives him an achievable set of goals, something simple enough to get _right_. If the snow is gone, he’s done it correctly. If the snow is still there, he hasn’t. Simple goals, simple rules, and even an idiot like Casey can’t screw them up. Mick can find all of Casey’s faults, but how Casey shovels the front isn’t one of them.

While he’s at it, he clears up the back, too, wiping down Mick’s grill. He goes back around and cleans all the snow off Mick’s work truck and Amy’s old Buick Regal, wiping them down with a rag until they’re dry and won’t rust, at least any worse than they already are. When he’s left with nothing else to do, Casey puts the snow shovel and the rag and the scraper back in the little detached garage that houses all of Mick’s tools. He makes sure the garage is neat and that everything is dry, that there’s no snow to melt on the floor and leave a puddle.

Casey wipes his shoes on the mat in front of the door. It’s seen better days and Casey reminds himself to remind himself to hang it up and let it get really dry, as soon as he gets a chance. He lets himself back in the door, and Mick’s up, sitting in his chair, a beer already in hand and the television blaring. He doesn’t look up when Casey comes through and Casey counts his blessings—he’s done it right this time, getting a jump on the work—as he heads back to his bedroom.

Casey’s room is very small. It’s easy to see the whole room from the doorway, to take in the scene, and there _is_ a scene. Casey can’t make sense of it, what he sees. His room is a mess, the drawers pulled out, things dumped on the floor. His bookshelf is emptied, the brick knocked down and the broken shelf hanging. His closet is open and clothes are barely on their hangers. His bed is unmade, cases off the pillows, mattress slightly off the frame, and that’s when Casey processes what he’s seeing in the middle of the bed.

The hoodie. David’s hoodie, spread out in the middle of the bed like a black flag, with a crumpled–then–smoothed rectangle of hot pink paper lying on top of it. Casey doesn’t have to pick it up to know what it is; it’s a PFLAG flier, the only fliers at McKinley that use that color of paper. _Oh god. Oh god._

There’s a lumbering sound behind him, heavy footsteps and the creak of the floorboards, and Casey wheels around to face the door. Mick somehow manages to fill the frame, sneering, “Found you out, you little faggot.”

Casey’s mouth moves, but his voice doesn’t seem to work, because only a squeak comes out. He swallows, tries again. “Dad. No, it’s not—”

“It’s not _what_?” Mick demands roughly. “Not what it looks like? I think it is. You came in all giggly last week, like some kind of girl, and I find out at work there was a fairy dance at the school that night. Did you dance with a _boy_?”

“Dad,” Casey says, and his voice is just barely above a whisper. “Dad, I went with friends. They’re just friends, dad. They’re from the football team, just friends, I swear.”

Mick steps into the room and backhands Casey across the face, before Casey can really see it coming. “Don’t backtalk me, boy!” Mick spits as he talks, and it falls on Casey’s face. “I asked you a question. Did you dance with a boy!”

“Yes!” Casey screams back at him from where he’s landed against the bed. “Yes, I did!”

“I don’t want no fairy for a son!” Mick bellows, and this time, his fists lash out, one right after the other, landing on Casey’s jaw and then his eye. Casey tastes blood, it’s all he really processes immediately, just impact and blood, and Mick doesn’t stop. He just keeps going, and Casey detaches, barely registering where the blows land, just that they land, and they’re hard, and they don’t stop.

“Mick, stop it, get off of him, you’re gonna kill him!” Casey dimly hears Amy’s voice, screaming at his father, pulling at him. “Mick, you’ll kill him!”

“Maybe I should!" Mick yells back. “Better dead than one of those faggots!"

Casey feels Mick’s hand tangling in the front of his shirt, feels himself being lifted forward, and then there’s the hard impact of Mick’s fist in Casey’s face.

 

“Casey, get up off the floor.”

Casey stirs and cracks an eye to look at his mother. Amy’s leaning over him with a rag. It’s cold and rough, and she dabs at his face with it.

“Get up off the floor and get in bed,” Amy says. “Come on, I’ll help you.” She pulls him up, and he tries, he really does, to keep her from having to bear much of his weight, but he can hardly hold himself up. She partially lifts, partially drags him up on to the bed, and even though every part of him hurts, he still reaches out and grabs the black hoodie, pulling it up over himself like a blanket.

“Casey, baby,” Amy whispers, trying to take the hoodie off of him. “Don’t provoke him. Why do you do that?”

Casey’s fingers tighten on the hoodie. His ribs hurts, his face hurts, everything _hurts_ , but that hoodie doesn’t belong to them. It’s not Amy’s; she’s not taking it.

“Casey.”

“No, mom,” he mumbles, because mumbling’s the sound that seems to come out. He can’t make his mouth work right. “No.”

“Alright, Casey,” she sighs. “I’ll try to keep him out of here. Just… stay in here.”

Casey doesn’t answer. It’s too hard and it’s too tiring, and there’s nothing he wants to say anyway. He’s done talking to her. He’s done.

 

He sleeps for most of the day, waking up a few times to stumble, as quietly as possible, across to the bathroom. The house is silent, maybe Mick’s not there, but honestly, Casey doesn’t even care any more. Let Mick come back. Let him come. Casey doesn’t have anything else to lose or hide.

Day fades into night, and Casey’s sure he’s heard people moving around the house, but no one comes in to bother him, so he keeps sleeping. At one point, he wakes up and pulls the hoodie on over his head, instead of just keeping it draped over him like a blanket. It hurts to lift his arm, but it doesn’t really matter any more.

In the morning, Casey hears Mick walking through the house, but Casey doesn’t even flinch. Let him come, let him hit Casey again. It doesn’t matter. Mick never even touches the door, and Casey hears the rumble of Mick’s truck as he leaves for work. He curls into a tighter ball and wishes he could go back to sleep, but stupid as Casey is, he still knows wishing doesn’t make any difference.

Finally, Casey rolls himself out of bed. He pushes his sleeve up, pulls out the crumpled pack of cigarettes, and lights one. He presses the glowing tip into the crook of elbow, hard, but he doesn’t even register the pain. It feels like nothing. He does it again, harder, a huge circle of a burn, pressing so hard it puts out the cigarette, and waits for the calm feeling that doesn’t come. He can’t even do _that_ right any more. He wants to cry, and he can’t even do that.

Casey stumbles into the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror, taking stock of himself. He looks like a stranger. His eyes are both purple and swollen, one of them nearly shut, and there’s not an inch of his face that isn’t blossoming into colors. His cheek has a cut, right over the cheek bone, in the middle of that cluster of freckles that Casey hates so much. Mick’s ring. One of Casey’s teeth is loose, the one behind the canine tooth, and he thinks one of his ribs might be broken. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts.

He opens the medicine cabinet, searching for something he can take. Bottle of Tylenol, old cough syrup, canisters of Mick’s shaving gel, rubbing alcohol. A nearly full bottle of expired oxycodone from last year, when Casey’s mom had some kind of cyst on her ovary, but Mick wouldn’t let her take it and miss work. Casey picks up the prescription bottle and rolls it in his hand. The pills click together and resettle, and the noise is somehow soothing, like a rain stick.

Casey fills up the bathroom cup with water, opens the bottle, and takes two, swallowing them. He sticks the bottle in his pocket and wanders out into the living room. The house is so still, with Mick gone and Amy sleeping. It feels like it’s empty, like Casey’s presence doesn’t even make a ripple, and it probably doesn’t. Mick said it, better dead than gay. Better dead.

It’s almost funny, how those two words keep echoing in Casey’s head. Maybe Mick knocked something loose in there, maybe Casey’s brain is broken now, and he really is as stupid as Mick always says he is. _Better dead_. Casey sees Mick’s half-full bottle of Jack on the counter, and he wants to pick it up and throw it across the room, but that would wake Amy, so instead he takes the bottle with him back to his room. He sets it on the dresser and lies down on the bed, staring up at it, then he stands up again, takes the bottle, and opens it.

Casey doesn’t drink, as a general rule. He’s seen what it does to Mick and it’s nothing he’s ever wanted for himself, the slurring and the stink and the meanness, but he tips up Mick’s bottle of Jack and drinks from it like it’s a bottle of pop. It burns, and Casey chokes and sputters, but he takes another drink, he drinks it like a _man_ , and maybe Mick would be proud then.

The burn in Casey’s stomach spreads and moves into his limbs. He pulls out the bottle of pills and shakes them, gently. _Better dead_. He pours out a handful of pills, shoves them in his mouth, and swallows them with a swig of the Jack, gagging, but getting them down. He dumps the rest into his hand and takes those, too. The alcohol makes his head swim, makes him sleepy, but nothing hurts. It’s all so easy.

He curls up on his bed in a little ball, pulling the hood up around his head, burrowing in. His buries his hands in the pockets and his fingers brush his phone. _David_. He should call David. David was so sad, so angry, and Casey didn’t even tell him he was sorry. He didn’t tell David a lot of important things. He thumbs the phone on and punches David’s number, cradling the phone to his ear.


	2. Teaser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana needs answers; Paul Karofsky has more answers than he wants.

Santana wants to hit something. No, she wants to hit something and then to kill someone, only she doesn’t know who to kill. So she drives, instead, drives through downtown Lima and over the river to the Hudson-Hummel residence. Finn’s truck is in the driveway, but it’s clear there’s no one home, and Santana follows Puck’s directions. The sliding door is unlocked, and she scoops the medications (and the written schedule, in what is probably Carole’s handwriting) into a re-usable shopping bag left nearby, before heading upstairs.

She goes into Finn’s room first, adds the wallet to the bag and a change of clothes, noting the way that he’s got pajama pants literally flung across his desk. Changed in a hurry, Santana decides, and then she starts looking for Puck’s duffel bag. She frowns after a minute. It’s not under the bed, not under the dresser, not in Finn’s closet. She looks around again and narrows her eyes. In fact, if she had to guess, she’d say just one person has been sleeping in the room.

Well. She stalks down the hall to Kurt’s room, and sure enough, there’s Puck’s duffel bag, right in the middle of the floor. The covers on the bed are flung back in two different directions, and there are two used pillows on the bed. Santana didn’t think Burt Hummel had it in him, but the room definitely looks like two boys have been living in it, not just one. She shakes her head and adds Kurt’s wallet and spare clothes to Puck’s duffel bag before zipping it up. She looks around the room and frowns. Puck didn’t say to bring anything else, but if he wanted clothes and meds, he’s probably anticipating being there awhile. She puts Kurt’s laptop into his messenger bag, then grabs both Kurt’s iPad and Finn’s out of his room, adding them to the bag before heading back downstairs and letting herself out through the garage.

Now, she needs answers.

 

Over the course of Burt’s life, he’s had to make a lot of phone calls he didn’t want to make. The call to Maggie’s parents when she died, the call to Carole when he kicked Finn out after that fight with Kurt, but this is one of the worst.

Burt calls Paul’s office line and the receptionist puts him right through to Paul’s phone.

“Paul Karofsky.”

“Hey, Paul, Burt Hummel.”

“Burt, hey, how’s your Presidents’ Day weekend?”

Burt huffs a loud sigh. “Paul, man, I’m not sure how to tell you this. I guess I’ve gotta just plow right into it. I think you need to head over to meet us at the St. Rita’s ER. David’s little friend—”

“Casey?” Paul interrupts.

“Yeah. Casey.” Burt exhales loudly. “He’s, uh, he’s apparently in a pretty bad way. I don’t know any details, but I know David’s with him. He tried to… well, every parent’s worst nightmare.”

“Oh, lord.” Paul falls silent for a few minutes. “And David…” he trails off.

“I don’t know,” Burt says. “I mean, my boys are headed over there to meet up with him, and I’m on my way out there, too, but… I know Casey and David are pretty close.”

“Casey was just over at our house last Monday,” Paul says, even though he and Burt had just talked about that on Saturday. “Always so polite. All right. My office is almost to Elida, so it’ll probably take me about fifteen minutes.”

“The boys’ll be there any minute and I’m right behind them. I’ll meet you in the waiting room. And Paul, I’m sorry about this.”

“Just wish the world were a different place,” Paul replies. “See you soon, Burt.”


	3. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath; All the deals Dave makes; Mr. Bodyguard; Where is home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Domestic violence/child abuse, descriptions of past violence, self-harm, suicide attempt, medical stuff
> 
>  **Authors' Soapbox:** Resources. Use them if you need them. [National Domestic Violence Hotline](http://www.thehotline.org/)/1−800−799−SAFE(7233) (US); [international DV resources](http://www.vaonline.org/dv.html); [Gay Men's Domestic Violence Project](http://gmdvp.org/); [The Trevor Project](http://www.thetrevorproject.org/)/1-866-488-7386 (for youth in crisis).

Dave sighs and looks down at his phone. No, no new text messages. No emails. No nothing from Casey, not for almost a week, and Dave hopes it’s just that Casey’s still mad, nothing more. Either way, he needs to get some lunch, head to class, because dual enrollment classes are still meeting, and so Dave walks out to his truck and decides to head for Taco Bell.

He grabs two of the XXL Steak Chalupas and some nachos and sits down at a small table, people–watching while he eats. He can’t get rid of the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s done all he can do, or that’s what he tells himself. He talked to Ms. Pillsbury on Thursday. Maybe Casey isn’t answering because they finally took him away from his good for nothing parents.

Dave’s phone rings, and he jumps, then realizes it’s Casey calling, finally, and he scoops it up, dropping his chalupa back onto the table without a thought. “Case!”

“David,” Casey says, but his voice sounds strange. It’s breathy and slurred, too soft. “David, hi. Hey.”

“I was getting worried,” Dave says, “But, hey, are you like, stuck somewhere?”

“David. I’m so sorry, David. I’m so sorry, okay? I’m just so sorry.”

“Casey, what’s wrong?” The gnawing feeling isn’t going away. If anything, it’s worse, bigger than before. “Casey!” Dave stands up, already moving out of the restaurant. “Are you— are you _drunk_? Do you have a concussion? Case. Talk to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Casey repeats, and it doesn’t even sound like he’s processing Dave’s words. “I love you, okay? You know that? And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for allathis. Just, I love you, and I’m sorry…” his voice trails off and is replaced by a snuffling noise, hitching breaths.

Dave stands in front of his truck, frozen. Something is wrong, seriously wrong, and he doesn’t want to make things worse, but somehow, he thinks maybe they can’t get much worse. “Okay, Case. Hang on, all right? I’ll be there soon.” He ends the call before Casey can respond, fumbling to dial out the three numbers.

“911 operator, what’s the nature of your emergency?”

“Yeah, uh, hi, my friend, he’s— I don’t know what’s wrong, he just called me and he sounded drunk or beat up or something, it’s just not right. Something’s _wrong_.”

“What’s your friend’s name and do you know his address?”

“West Ashton, uh, 2395. His name’s Casey. He’s fifteen, his dad hits him around, but this just, something’s wrong.” Dave climbs into his truck and peels out of the parking lot. If he’s lucky, he can get there in five minutes.

“I’m dispatching emergency services to the location. What’s your name?”

“Dave. Uh, David Karofsky.”

“Okay, David. Are you driving?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m going over there.”

“The EMTs will meet you there, David. Is this your call back number?” The dispatcher rattles off Dave’s cell number.

“Yeah, that’s my cell.”

“Okay, David, hang up the phone while you’re driving. We’ll call you back if we need anything else. Help’s coming, alright?”

“Okay.” Dave just drops his phone into the seat beside him, and he knows he’s probably driving too fast or too recklessly, but he has to get there, has to know what’s wrong.

There’s no sign of an ambulance or anything when David skids to a stop in front of Casey’s house, but when runs up the sidewalk, he can hear the echo of sirens growing closer. He bangs on the door after he tries it and finds it locked. “Open up!” he screams. “Let me in!”

When there’s no response fast enough—and Dave’s barely aware that ‘fast enough’ would have had to be ‘unlocked and open’—he throws his weight against the door. It creaks, and he kicks near the lock, the door swinging open. “Case!” he yells, but there’s no response.

The door across from Casey’s flings open. “What’s going on out here?” Casey’s mother says, taking a step back when she sees Dave.

“Casey— something’s wrong—” Dave chokes out, crossing the small space to Casey’s bedroom and entering. “Oh, God, Case.”

Casey looks even more tiny than usual, but it’s the empty bottle of Jack Daniels and the empty prescription bottle next to him that make Dave want to scream. “Case.” He crosses the room and turns him over, gasping at the bruises all over his face. “Case. Wake up. Come on, Casey, wake up, please.” The sirens are getting louder, and Dave makes a split-second decision, scooping Casey up in his arms and running back out onto the lawn. “Come on, Casey, wake up!”

“David?” Casey mumbles, but doesn’t open his eyes. He might not even be talking _to_ Dave.

“Yeah, yeah, Case, I’m right here, wake up for me, please.” The ambulance comes barrelling up, and Dave is peripherally aware that Casey’s mom has followed him out, standing on the front porch yelling something.

Two EMTs, one woman and one man, jump out of the ambulance, the woman opening up the back, the man approaching Dave cautiously. “I’m an EMT, I’m here to help, okay? Can you tell me what happened so I can help?”

“He called, something wasn’t right, found him, pills, whiskey, he won’t wake up.”

“What’s his name?”

“Casey. Casey O’Brien. His dad— his dad beats him, I don’t know what happened.”

“Casey, hey, Casey!” The EMT peels back one of Casey’s eyelids, shines a penlight in it. “Casey, buddy, you hear me? Do you know what he took or how much?” the EMT addresses the last question to Dave.

Dave shakes his head. “I just got here before you did, the bottle’s on his bed.”

The EMT lady runs into the house while the one whose been talking to Dave pulls a stretcher out of the back of the ambulance. “Can you set him on here?” the EMT asks Dave. Dave nods, setting Casey down carefully and then standing next to the stretcher, while the EMT puts his fingers to Casey’s wrist and looks at his watch. The woman EMT comes back out with the pill bottle and there’s some murmured discussion between the two of them, because the guy EMT says, “Okay, we’ve gotta get Casey to the hospital. Ma’am, are you coming with us?” he shouts to Casey’s mom, who’s still standing on the porch.

“No,” Dave cuts in. “She knew about his dad, she just let it happen. I’m going.”

There’s a split-second where the EMTs look like they might argue, but then they don’t. The EMTs strap Casey to the stretcher, load him into the back and the woman hurries round to the front to drive while the male EMT climbs in, pulling Dave in after him. The EMT pulls the doors shut behind them and the sirens are blaring before the ambulance even pulls away from the house.

“Casey, I’m going to cut this sweatshirt off of you so I can listen to your breathing,” the EMT explains, though it’s probably more for Dave’s sake than Casey’s. Dave distantly registers that it might be the too–small for him hoodie that Casey borrowed what seems like ages ago now. The scissors they use look huge, and Casey looks smaller than he really is, so still on his back.

The EMT feels Casey’s pulse again, listens to his chest with one of those stethoscopes, and says, “His respiration is depressed. That means he’s not breathing enough, probably from the narcotics.” He pulls out a small vial of clear liquid and a syringe. “This should help negate some of the drugs and help him breathe better. He might wake up, he might be upset, so just…” The EMT injects a tiny amount of the liquid into Casey, who twitches a little and makes a tiny broken noise, like he is utterly helpless. Casey takes a deeper breath, though, and when the EMT listens and feels, he nods and then carefully places an oxygen mask over Casey’s bruised face.

“He your brother?” the EMT asks.

Dave shakes his head. “Best friend. He’s— I hadn’t heard from him over the weekend, so when he called, I thought maybe, you know. His dad had left him alone or something.”

“You think his dad did this?” the EMT asks, indicating Casey’s injuries. “You’re pretty sure about that?”

“Sure as I can be without having seen it,” Dave acknowledges. “I feel stupid, I didn’t put it all together until last week, but I dropped him off and when.” He exhales heavily. “When I was on the steps, I heard it, and I asked Casey the next day, and he just. He freaked out. Told me not to get involved, that he just had to try harder, and ran. I told our guidance counselor on Thursday.”

The EMT nods. “You did the right thing, okay? And you did the right thing calling us today. We’re gonna do our best to help Casey.”

The ambulance pulls into the bay at St. Rita’s, and the doors open into a flurry of activity. The EMT hops out and starts to slide the stretcher, and Dave realizes with a literal jerk that he’s taken Casey’s hand. He releases it and then climbs out of the ambulance, intent on following Casey wherever they are taking him. The EMT and some other guys in scrubs roll the stretcher in through the doors and then the EMT stops, putting a hand on Dave’s shoulder to keep him from following the stretcher through the next set of double doors.

“They’re not gonna let you back there,” the EMT says, “and you don’t need to see it, anyway.”

“But.” Dave protests, staring as Casey disappears into the hospital.

The EMT squeezes Dave’s shoulder. “Do you have someone you can call?”

Dave stares at him blankly for a minute, then nods. “Yeah. Okay.” He turns away from the EMT and pulls out his phone, wondering how it got into his pocket. The last he remembers is dropping it in his truck. He flips through his contacts, hesitating only a minute before pressing Kurt’s number.

When Kurt answers, and can’t understand him, Dave realizes he’s crying, sobbing maybe even, and all he can get out at first is “Pills, and Jack, and so so still.”

He takes a deep breath. “Casey. He called, he took— stuff, said he was sorry. Called 911, he was breathing but.” Another breath. “St. Rita’s. Okay. Okay.”

 

Dave thinks that the woman he’s following is Kurt’s stepmom, Hudson’s mom, but it’s not particularly important, as long as she keeps taking him back through the doors that they wouldn’t let him through, earlier. As long as she keeps leading him through winding corridors and the bright fluorescent halls.

“Dr. Clark, this is David Karofsky. He’s going to be staying with Casey,” Carole says firmly. “David, this is Dr. Clark. He’s been supervising Casey’s care.”

“Hi.” Dave manages, nodding.

“David,” Dr. Clark begins, “has anyone explained what’s happened with Casey so far?”

“Vaguely,” Dave nods. “The EMT talked about the nar–stuff, and I know you had to pump his stomach.”

The doctor nods. “We did perform a gastric lavage to clear the alcohol and remaining pills from his stomach. We also administered another dose of the Narcan intravenously, and that’s what he’s reacting to right now. He’s very confused at the moment and we can’t do too much else with him until we can get him calmed down.”

Dave can feel that gnawing wrongness again, and he closes his eyes briefly. “Can— can I see him?”

“Well, I would normally say that no, I don’t think it’s the best idea, but Carole was insistent that we let you see him. She seems pretty convinced that having you in there might help him calm down,” the doctor explains. “I know you were with him on scene, but I want you to be prepared for what you’re going to see in there.”

“Okay,” Dave nods.

“Along with the overdose, or more accurately, prior to, your friend suffered some fairly severe injuries to his face and torso. We haven’t had a chance to X-ray him yet, but my guess is he has at least one broken rib, possible fractures to one or more of his facial bones, and some additional,” the doctor pauses, looks uncomfortable. “Some additional possibly unrelated injuries.”

“Unrelated? What kind of injuries are you talking about?” Dave can’t help but wonder if Casey’s been slammed into more lockers, the last few days of the previous week.

“He has some… burns, on one of his arms,” the doctor explains, and he seems to be searching Dave’s face for something.

Dave frowns. “Burns? Like… a sunburn?” He makes a face. “No, that’s crazy, it’s February in Ohio. Like from cooking or something?”

“Cigarette burns.”

“Cigarette burns?” Dave recoils a little, staring at the doctor. “Like— his dad smokes, but…”

“They appear to be deliberate, and consistent with self-harm.”

Dave just stares at Dr. Clark. “What? No. No, that’s. That doesn’t.” He stops, because it doesn’t make any sense that Casey would wash narcotics down with a bottle of whiskey, either, but yet he _did_ that. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Some of them were very recent, some older, and he has scar tissue indicating this may have been going on for quite some time,” the doctor says, apologetically. “If it helps, kids who self-harm, they usually do a good job of covering it up. It’s not something anyone would have expected you to know.”

“I just.” Dave shakes his head. “I never would have guessed,” he admits.

“We’ve cleaned them up and wrapped them,” Dr. Clark says. “Would you like me to take you in there now?”

“Yeah.” Dave takes a deep breath.

“He’s been restrained,” the doctor warns. “Sometimes people react pretty violently to the Narcan, and we didn’t want him to hurt himself. If you can help us calm him down, we’ll unfasten the restraints, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” Dave nods, and then follows Dr. Clark into the room. Casey’s lying on the bed, shaking with his eyes wide, and the best word that Dave can think of is _frantic_. He’s still covered in bruises, a few bandages here and there, and his wrists are rattling in the restraints. “Case,” Dave says softly, stepping close to the bed. “Case, hey, hey.”

“David?” Casey’s head snaps in Dave’s direction, and his eyes are so big, like he’s seen something either horrifically scary or wonderfully amazing. “David! I don’t. I can’t. I don’t know what’s going on, I just. David?”

“Case, shh. Shh. It’s okay. Okay? They’re just helping you. I promise.”

“I need to get up, David, I need to go, I have to go home, I have to go,” Casey keeps repeating, trying to sit up and not managing it well.

“No. No, Casey O’Brien. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here, Case. With me. Okay? Right here, they’re going to help you.” _And God help me, you’re not going back there again._

“Right here? You’re staying here?”

“Yeah. I’m staying right here, okay? So let these people do their job. Dr. Clark, he’s a nice guy, okay?”

Casey doesn’t stop shaking, but he stops trying to pull at the restraints or sit up off the bed. “Right here, okay. Yeah, okay, we’ll be right here.”

“Good. Yeah. You just wanted me to miss that stupid psych class, yeah?” Dave attempts a little bit of a grin, and takes Casey’s hand as the nurses undo the restraints. “They just need to help you a little more, Case. All right?”

“Okay, David,” Casey whispers, nodding his head a little too rapidly, but managing actual eye contact. “Yeah, okay. Hi.”

“Hey.” Dave maintains eye contact with Casey until one of the nurses clears her throat.

“We need to draw some blood and then take some X-rays,” she says apologetically. “You don’t need to leave, but we do need to get started on those things.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dave nods. “Hear that, Case? They’re just going to take a little bit of your blood, all right? Just to make sure you’ve got, uh, I dunno. Enough good stuff. You just look at me.”

“I don’t like blood.”

“Yeah, I know, so you look here, we’re gonna, um.” Dave looks around. “Try to figure out what the stuff in that cabinet is for. Okay?”

“Okay. Okay. I, um. I see swabs.”

Dave chuckles. “Yeah. Maybe those are for, um. Strep throat tests.”

 

It takes hours for them to draw Casey’s blood, take him to X-ray, and then process him to go to a regular room. Dave follows Casey to the X-ray room and then upstairs to his room, all without leaving his side. Casey dozes at one point while they’re still in the ER, and a social worker appears, asking Dave a bunch of questions that mostly have one of two answers: “I didn’t know” or “His dad.” The social worker won’t tell him what will happen, but when he asks if he’s going to have to commit a felony to keep Casey out of that house, the social worker does smile briefly and assure that it doesn’t seem like that will be necessary.

Casey wakes up, a little more coherent, just after they wheel him into the upstairs room, as the nurse is finishing explaining what will happen over the next twelve to twenty-four hours.

“David?” Casey blinks at Dave. “Are we still here?”

“Hey.” Dave turns back to the bed, dragging the chair up to its side. “They moved you upstairs for a while. How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.”

“Yeah, the nurse said you might be.” Dave reaches behind him and grabs the thermos mug full of ice chips as well as the small plastic cup. He pours a few of the ice chips into the cup and then holds the cup up to Casey’s lips. “Have to get you some lip balm, huh?” Dave makes a mental note to ask one of the guys outside to grab some for Casey. Casey sucks an ice chip into his mouth, his eyes wide over the rim of the cup.

Dave sets the cup back on the table after Casey pulls away. “Better?”

Casey nods. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“So.” Dave exhales. “You’re going to be here for a few days, Case.”

“Am I going to jail?” Casey asks, his voice small.

“Jail?” Dave stares at Casey, totally puzzled. “Why would you be going to jail?”

“They won’t let me leave and they strapped my hands on the bed before. I don’t know why.”

“They were worried you’d hurt yourself,” Dave has to stop, choking on the _again_ that his mind traitorously adds. “They need to make sure that, you know. You’re okay. And you have to talk to some people, tomorrow and probably Wednesday and Thursday, too.”

“Why do I have to stay so long?” Casey looks agitated again, and he starts to breathe rapidly. “I don’t think I can stay here that long, okay?”

“You have to, Case, or you really would be in trouble.” Dave feels awful saying that, but he knows Casey needs to calm down, and there’s no way he needs to leave the hospital before that. “Case. You.” Dave shakes his head and looks down. “Do you remember why you’re here, Case?”

“I took some of my mom’s pills,” Casey says.

“You took the entire bottle, Case,” Dave says softly. “And you drank a bunch of whiskey, too. You— God, Case. You were so fucking still. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m so sorry, David,” Casey whispers. “I’m sorry you were scared. Did, did somebody call you to come here? Was it my mom?”

 _Fuck_. “No, you called me. When you were still at home. I, uh, may have broken down your front door,” Dave admits. “And called 911. Case, you— you could have _died_. I don’t know, maybe you almost did, I don’t know. Just, God. I was so scared, Case.”

“Better dead,” Casey mutters.

“What?!” Dave recoils, the action pushing the chair he’s in back several inches. “No, _fuck_ no.”

“It’s what he said. It’s what he said to me. He hit me and he said, he said it,” Casey says, his eyes filling up with tears. “‘Better dead than a faggot,’ he said. And he just kept… he just kept _hitting_ me.”

And Dave knows, then, knows what happened. Somehow, someway, Mick found out. “He’s _wrong_ ,” Dave hisses fiercely. “So wrong, Case. You know that, right? Please, tell me you realize that.”

Casey looks down at his hands, picking at the thin hospital blanket, and he doesn’t answer. A few tears roll down his cheeks, catching the lamplight against his bruises.

“Well,” Dave says roughly. “I guess that’s why you’ll be talking to the psychiatrist tomorrow,” he adds, softer, shaking his head. “Okay?”

Casey nods. “I’m so sorry, David.”

“You should rest,” Dave continues gently, almost as if Casey hasn’t spoken. “I think it’s going to be a long day tomorrow, Case.”

“Are you gonna go?”

Dave shakes his head. “I’ll be right here.”

 

Casey wakes up feeling sore, thirsty, and strangely safe. Before he even opens his eyes, he knows David is still there, just like he promised. The warm weight against Casey’s stomach is David’s hand wrapped around his, resting there, and the soft puff of air on his hair is David breathing, and for one minute, Casey forgets where he is and how he got there. He doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, it’s just _safe_.

He hears soft footsteps and opens his eyes, turns his head carefully. Yes, David is squeezed into the narrow hospital bed with Casey, lying on his side and curved around Casey’s whole body, one long arm across the top of Casey’s pillow, knees barely grazing Casey’s leg, sock feet hanging off the end of the bed. A nurse is adjusting something on the IV line running into the back of Casey’s hand, and when she sees Casey looking at her, she smiles.

“Hi Casey,” she says, keeping her voice low. “How are we feeling this morning?”

Casey runs his dry tongue across his drier lips. “Thirsty,” he whispers. “Really thirsty.”

“I’m going to take your blood pressure and then draw a little blood, then we’ll see about getting you something to drink and maybe a little something to eat,” the nurse says, putting the cuff around Casey’s arm.

“Can the blood part wait?” Casey asks, nervous. He can do it if he has to, he doesn’t want them to wake up David, he doesn’t want to do anything to upset anyone else.

The nurse glances up at David, still breathing into Casey’s hair, and she smiles at Casey again. “It can wait a little while, sweetie, don’t worry. Let me see if I can get you a drink. Is apple juice okay or do you just want some water?”

Casey shrugs one shoulder; it hurts. “Whichever is easier. I don’t mind.”

Before she walks out of the room, she smiles at him again, like everyone here keeps smiling at him, so nice and kind of sad, and Casey feels an overpowering wave of guilt that he’s caused all these people so much trouble, and _that_ guilt doesn’t even touch the huge, dark horror of what it is he’s done to David.

Because he has, hasn’t he? This is something he’s done, not just to himself, but to David. David called Casey his best friend. David never stopped trying to feed Casey pie and put warmer clothes on him, no matter how many times Casey said he’s fine. David _kicked in Casey’s door_ because Casey didn’t sound right in a phone call. Casey shouldn’t matter this much to someone, he shouldn’t, he doesn’t deserve that kind of—call it what it is, what it feels like— _love_ from someone. He doesn’t deserve it, he was shown it anyway, and what he’s given David in return is worry, fear, anger, and a night crammed into a hospital bed.

Casey’s dad, he was right. He must have been right. Casey feels pressure in his chest, another of David’s hand–breadths above where their hands are curled together, and even as he tries not to cry, not to be weak, he can’t stop the tears from dripping down his face. They sting as they run down the taped–together cut on his cheek, and even though most of what happened is fuzzy and muffled in his mind, what Mick said, the feel of Mick holding him up by his shirt collar, of the ring on Mick’s right hand splitting open Casey’s cheek, that memory is sharp and clear.

He shakes with the sob he can’t choke back, and David’s hand tightens around Casey’s.

 

Dave is having a nightmare. He’s pretty sure it’s one of those long, extended nightmares, where he knows that it’s a nightmare, but he can’t quite get out of it. Plus, his neck has a crick in it, and he’s pretty sure his bed shrunk overnight. It has to be a nightmare, because surely Casey didn’t really hurt himself, burning himself with lit cigarettes. It has to be a nightmare, because Casey would have called him if he’d really been beaten that badly by his father. It has to be a nightmare, because Casey doesn’t drink. It has to be a nightmare, because Casey wouldn’t have tried to kill himself.

Except that as consciousness slowly returns, Dave remembers. Dave remembers the sinking feeling in his chest. Dave remembers everything, even the moments that left him blank at the time. He remembers – remembers that the nightmare is true, that he’s squeezed onto the bed next to Casey, because Casey was so restless, not really awake after awhile, but not sleeping well, either, and it was the only thing that Dave could think of that might work. If nothing else, it was better than sleeping sitting up, his head falling forward onto the mattress.

He hears the faint murmur of conversation, and then it stops. Minutes pass, and then he hears a sound that breaks his heart, a small sob, shaking throughout Casey’s body. _Time to wake up, Dave_ he tells himself, squeezing Casey’s hand reassuringly before speaking. “Morning, Case.”

Casey doesn’t answer, he just curls up into a little ball and rolls into Dave’s chest, heavy sobs soaking Dave’s shirt as the tears come and come and come. Dave just lets him cry, not trying to stop him, because that seems like it might be a bad idea. Maybe Casey needs to cry, because Dave can’t remember Casey crying over some of the things he should have cried about. He does put his hand on Casey’s shoulder, trying to let Casey know that Dave’s there, he’s right there, not going anywhere, but not overwhelming him.

There’s a creak of the door behind Dave, and he twists his head to make eye contact with the nurse. She raises her eyebrow questioningly, then points to her wrist and holds up her hand, mouthing ‘five’. Dave nods, and she leaves again, and Dave hopes Casey will be ready for whatever the nurse needs by then.

Casey’s crying slowly tapers off, soft hitching of his breath, but it’s not continuous anymore. His body still shakes under Dave’s hand, but Dave thinks that maybe his muscles aren’t so tense. Maybe. Dave hopes he’s not just imagining things. “I think the nurse needs to check a few things,” Dave whispers quietly. “She’s going to be back in a minute. Do I need to tell her to come back later again?”

Casey snuffles and shakes his head, a tiny motion against Dave’s chest. “She’s gotta take blood,” Casey creaks. “She already waited some.”

“Okay. She had a whole cart of stuff, so I wasn’t sure. Blood pressure cuffs and random cups and juice.”

“She said she’d bring me some juice. My mouth is so dry.”

“There you go, then.” Dave stretches out a little. “Let’s get you sitting up so you can drink it. You think that’d help with her taking blood? Drinking the juice?”

Casey shrugs and sniffles some more, then tries to rub his eyes. The IV line jerks a little with the movement, and Casey whimpers a little. The whimper seems to be a cue for the nurse, who pushes the door open again as Dave swings his legs off the edge of the bed and Casey lowers his hand back down.

“Ready now?” she asks, smiling slightly.

Casey looks at Dave, like he’s afraid Dave’s going to disappear if he says the wrong thing. “If the juice doesn’t distract you, I can attempt to juggle,” Dave offers.

Casey doesn’t quite smile, but his face relaxes. “Juice is good. I think.”

The nurse’s smile gets a little wider, and she hands Casey the apple juice from the tray, along with a straw, before turning back to the cart to do whatever it is she has to do before drawing blood. “Oh, your friends were here earlier, they left those bags on the table over there,” she says without looking up.

Casey looks at Dave questioningly, but he doesn’t ask. He sips his juice very slowly. “Probably Kurt,” Dave answers Casey’s unspoken question. “And Puckerman or Hudson. Santana would have woken us up.” He stands and looks in both bags, then brings the one without the McDonald’s food in it back to the bed. “I thought you might want lip balm. Looks like Kurt went a little crazy with it.”

“Okay, Casey, I’m going to need your arm over here,” the nurse says, taking Casey’s arm gently. His eyes get a little wild and he sucks on the straw almost frantically. Dave empties the rest of the bag onto the bed, trying to distract him.

“So, uh, three kinds of lip balm. iTunes card. Some gum. Oh, here you go, Case, someone’s been watching you.” He manages to grin a little. “Candy.”

“I like candy,” Casey mutters. “You think they’ll let me eat it?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” the nurse answers firmly, but when she looks away, Dave shakes his head

“As soon as she leaves,” he mouths, and Casey almost smiles.

“There we go!” the nurse announces. “Blood drawn. Now, the attending on the floor is going to stop by in the next hour, and he’ll let you know about the results, okay?”

Casey looks at Dave first, like he’s not sure which of them the nurse is speaking to, but then he nods. “Are they going to be bringing breakfast by for Casey?” Dave asks, even though he’s pretty sure the answer is no.

“You, sir,” the nurse speaks directly to Casey, “get broth, maybe oatmeal if you keep making that sweet face at me. Your friend here gets his bag of junk food microwaved if he promises not to gloat about it.”

“Aww, man.” Dave smiles slightly at the nurse, then directs his gaze back to Casey. “I know you’re going to be jealous of my McGriddles or whatever Puckerman ordered, especially since they’re cold now.” He shakes his head. “I’ll do my best to contain my enthusiasm.”

The corner of Casey’s mouth twitches a little. The nurse shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “The broth here is really good. You might end up being the jealous one.”

Dave shakes his head. “I promise not to steal any broth!”

“You better not,” she scolds, gathering everything back up onto the cart. “Someone will come back with something for you in a few minutes, Casey.”

As soon as the door shuts, Dave unwraps the ring pop and hands it to Casey. “I don’t know which one of them thought of a ring pop.”

“I love those,” Casey says. “The red ones. I love the red ones.”

“Red plastic or red candy?” Dave teases. “I’m afraid this one has blue plastic.”

“I like blue, too.” Casey slides the ring pop onto this thumb.

“Very patriotic,” Dave nods. Casey makes him think of the toddlers in the church nursery, some of them with pacifiers and some with thumbs lodged firmly in their cheeks, and the oversized nature of the hospital gown make Casey look younger than he is.

An orderly or whatever he is comes in with a plastic tray and a small bowl of oatmeal. Casey slides the ring pop around his thumb so it’s hidden in his palm without seeming aware he’s doing it. The guy pulls the bed–table up and sets the oatmeal on it, putting down a spoon without saying anything. Dave nods at him. “Thanks.” The orderly just shrugs and leaves the room.

“Talkative guy,” Dave snorts.

“Maybe he’s scared of you,” Casey says, rotating his ring pop back and sticking it back in his mouth.

“I didn’t do anything!” Dave protests. “I’m just sitting here waiting on my junk food while you get— hey, you got oatmeal instead of broth. Now I can’t steal your broth.”

“You want some oatmeal?”

“No, I was looking forward to the broth, Case.” Dave pouts a little, poking at Casey’s bowl. Both corners of Casey’s mouth twitch this time. The door opens again and this time the nurse is back with the McDonald’s bag.

“Your junk food breakfast,” she says, offering Dave the bag. “And some napkins. Call me if you need some blood pressure meds to go with that.”

Dave shakes his head and takes the bag. “Thank you.” He turns to Casey, then, and grins. “So how about you take a bite for every four of mine?”

Casey sucks on his ring pop and gives the oatmeal a dubious look. “Six?”

“Five,” Dave states, definitive.

Casey nods and picks up the plastic spoon, staring at it like he’s not sure what to do with it.

“Most people use the round end,” Dave says around a mouthful of McGriddle. “But you could try using the other one.”

It’s hard to tell under all the bruising, but Dave thinks he sees Casey blush a little. Casey sticks the spoon into the oatmeal and scoops up the tiniest bite, sniffing at it a little before nibbling it off the spoon. Dave isn’t sure that Casey really manages a bite for each of Dave’s five, but he does eat some, and at least the bowl looks like someone bothered it by the time they push the bed–table away.

“Food Network worthy?” Dave asks.

Casey shrugs. “Tasted like oatmeal.” He fiddles with the ringpop on his thumb, but doesn’t put it back in his mouth.

“That’s a no on Food Network then,” Dave agrees. There’s a cursory knock on the door before it opens, and a guy with one of those white doctor coats walks into the room. His name is embroidered on the coat: Dr. H. Templeton.

“Casey O’Brien?” Dr. Templeton looks at Casey. “I’m Dr. Templeton.” Then he turns to Dave. “And you must be his friend David.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dave says with a nod, cautious.

“Hi,” Casey whispers, shrinking in on himself.

“Your tox screen and blood panels from this morning are back,” the doctor says, looking down at a clipboard in his hand. “Your levels look like they’re about back to normal, which is reassuring. I’m a little concerned about a few of the readings from the blood panel. You’re anemic, your vitamin D levels are a little low, and you have a slight sodium/potassium imbalance, but all of that speaks to some longer term nutritional deficiencies. You’re also underweight for your height and age, so I’d like to see you on some better food, maybe by lunch time today. How’s that sound?”

Casey nods, but not enthusiastically. “Maybe they’ll have some pie or ice cream for dessert,” Dave suggests.

“Someone’ll be in to change out that bandage, and I’d really like to order a second set of X-rays on that facial fracture, but that will be later today. Dr. Naser, the psychiatrist, is going to be up here by around 11:30 or so. The social worker will probably be back by in the late afternoon,” Dr. Templeton adds. “You’ve got a full dance card today.”

Casey’s shrunk even more against the bed, and his eyes are huge. “When’s my mom gonna come?” he whispers.

The doctor’s expression changes, and Dave frowns. “Your mother won’t be coming here,” Dr. Templeton says stiffly. Casey turns to Dave, searching his face for something, answers maybe.

Dave shakes his head. “No, Case.”

“She didn’t do anything,” Casey says, his voice small.

“Which is exactly the problem,” Dave mutters, unable to hold back his thoughts.

“The social worker will explain more when she arrives,” Dr. Templeton says. “Press the call button if you need anything from the nurses.”

Casey doesn’t even nod. He just looks stunned. Dr. Templeton nods at both of them, then exits the room, and Dave registers the clatter of the chart being tucked back into the wall pocket.

“Why isn’t my mom coming?”

“Case, you should have been here all day yesterday, because of Sunday. Your mom’s not coming because she didn’t do anything, and she hasn’t done anything before, to help you or protect you.” Dave sighs and runs his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know the details, obviously, Case, but I know that your mom was in the house with you, alone, on Monday morning. Even if she couldn’t have called for help on Sunday—and I’d argue she should have—she could have then.”

“But she didn’t do anything wrong. She couldn’t call anybody, David. You don’t understand. She _couldn’t_ , it would just make it worse.” Casey’s eyes move rapidly, like he’s scanning Dave’s face. “She tried to help me, she did. She kept him away after.”

“She should have taken you and _left_ ,” Dave says firmly, because there’s no doubt in his mind that this is true. “There are places the two of you could have gone. She could have called the police and had your dad arrested, Case. Listen to me, Case. Your dad is in jail. Okay? They arrested him last night, my dad let me know. You, the two of you, she could have gotten the two of you away. What she did wasn’t okay.”

“He would have found us. He would have killed her.”

Dave shakes his head; it’s probably not the time to explain battered women’s shelters to Casey, especially since he’s not sure he grasped everything that his dad was telling him. “Case, just, please. Understand that your mom could potentially face charges as well. The law says what she did was wrong.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Casey says, his eyes filling with tears. “David, it wasn’t. It was me.”

“There is _nothing_ you could do to make it your fault, Case.” Dave feels like punching something, and while his total failure at impulse control worked in his favor, majorly, the day before, he knows he can’t lose control now.

“No, David, no. You don’t understand. It was _me_ , he found out about _me_ , and… and he asked me, David. And I _told_ him.” Tears start to run down Casey’s cheeks. “I told him. I told him I danced with a boy at the dance.”

“So should my dad beat me up?”

“What? _No_ , David! No, don’t say that, okay? Don’t!” Casey just cries harder.

“But I danced with a boy, too!” Dave protests, moving closer to Casey and resting his hand on his forearm. “Case, there’s no reason at all for your dad to hit you. Ever.”

“I didn’t do a good enough job. I didn’t try hard enough. I messed up _so much_ , David, all the time, and I _tried_ , I did. I tried so hard.”

“My dad says that it’s not my job to try. It’s just my job to be, well, me. If anyone has to try, it’s supposed to be the parents.”

“I mess everything up so bad,” Casey says, between sobs. “So bad.”

“No, Case. You don’t.”

“I’m so sorry, David.”

“Don’t— just, don’t apologize, okay?”

“You shouldn’t have to be here. You shouldn’t be stuck in all my mess, David, and I’m just so, so sorry, I tried to tell you, and now you’re here and, and,” Casey doesn’t seem able to continue. He just breaths rapid, gasping breaths.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Slow breaths, okay?” Dave frowns. He’s in over his head, he knows that, but he can’t just stop, either. “Shh. I’m right where I want to be, okay?”

“You’re my best friend, too,” Casey breathes. “Like you said at school. You’re mine, too.”

Dave smiles, and he knows it’s a little sad–seeming. “I just want you to see yourself the way the rest of us see you.”

Casey exhales deeply. “I’m so tired.”

“Then you should rest again,” Dave says practically.

“Don’t go?” Casey asks, and he sounds like he’s afraid he’s going to wake up and Dave will be gone.

“I told you. I’ll be right here.”

Casey leans against Dave, his head falling right against the pocket on Dave’s T-shirt, and Dave lets his own eyes close, too. It took years for Case to get to this point; Dave needs to remember that it will take longer than an hour to fix it.

“Love you, David,” Casey mutters, sounding like he’s already drifting off to sleep.

 

Casey isn’t sure how long he’s slept. He feels like he’s done nothing but sleep for days, but somehow, waking up with David, even in the hospital under these circumstances, is just so nice, and Casey doesn’t really want to move his head from David’s chest, with David’s heart beating right under Casey’s ear. Still, he can hear the door opening again, the rattle of the nurse’s cart, and he lifts his head. David starts with the movement, his head jerking upwards and the movement radiating along his body. “Hmm?” David murmurs.

“It’s ok,” Casey says. “It’s the nurse.”

“Me again,” the nurse says. “Here with some ice water, a blood pressure cuff, and some bandages. Those all sound good to you?”

Casey frowns and he presses his lips together, glancing over at David. “Um. Ice water sounds good. Blood pressure cuff’s okay, I guess.”

“Well, none of them are actually optional, but I’ve always though the illusion of choice was nice,” she jokes. “Okay, big guy, move over. I need Casey’s arm for this cuff.”

David shifts off the bed, into the chair still close to it, and doesn’t say anything still, just watches. He moves again when his phone makes a little noise, and then frowns at the screen as he reads whatever message is displayed before typing out a reply.

“Everything okay?” Casey asks, and then he feels stupid, because he’s lying in a hospital bed with a blood pressure cuff on his arm, and David has spent most of the last who knows how many hours crammed into that bed with Casey, and apparently Kurt and Puck and other people have been by, too. So, no. Everything’s not okay, and that’s all Casey’s fault.

“Yeah, just some— something to watch out for.” David’s frown gets deeper. “Kind of weird thing to think about, though.”

“Oh. Okay,” Casey says. The nurse removes the cuff from his arm and starts messing with a sealed package of bandages on the cart. “Um, did you want to go and call them back? It would be okay, if you needed to.” He accepts the cup of ice water the nurse hands him, but keeps glancing between David and the bandages and ointment stuff being prepped by the nurse. “Really, you can stretch your legs a little bit. This bed is too tiny.”

David frowns but nods. “Yeah, I think… I think maybe I should.” He stands and walks to the door. “I’ll just be right out here, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll, um. I’ll be right in here,” Casey says. The nurse starts removing the bandages on his arm, and Casey pointedly does not look down at his arm, instead watching David leaving the room. The last layer of bandage sticks to the burns and Casey inhales sharply. He’s so glad that this, at least, is something David doesn’t have to see.

 

Dave is still outside Casey’s room, almost pacing as he considers what Kurt just told him. He doesn’t know why or how this was at the front of Kurt’s mind, but he’s glad he knows now that it’s a potential concern.

The click of heels echoes down the hallway, and Dave is instantly on alert as a small, dark haired woman in very shiny shoes like something Ms. Pillsbury would wear approaches the door of Casey’s room. She’s definitely not a nurse and she’s not the social worker from before.

“Are you Dr. Naser?” Dave asks her directly, because there’s no real way to be subtle about it, he figures.

“Are you the teenage bodyguard?” she answers, looking at him appraisingly, and with what might be a little amusement.

Dave snorts. “My reputation precedes me.”

“Oh, yes. There was a note,” Dr. Naser says, her mouth moving like she’s trying not to smile.

“My dad’s going to tell me I should be famous for other reasons.” Dave shakes his head. “Uh, you aren’t one of those brainwashers? Not that you’d admit it. Damn. Sorry, ma’am.”

Now she looks like she’s trying not to _laugh_. “I don’t think so. Why, have they been a big problem lately?”

“A friend of mine, he was a little vague, but something about the psychiatrist here in Lima and being one of those um, reparative therapy people? So, yeah, I just.”

“Ah, you’re asking if I’m going to try to make somebody… not be gay, I’m assuming?” She lifts one eyebrow.

“Yeah, that. My friend said something about Jesus camps, but I don’t know what that has to do with it, actually.” Dave shrugs.

“Well, hopefully you won’t be too disappointed if I assure you that no, there’s no camp, no brainwashing, and I honestly don’t think it’s my job to rearrange anyone’s sexual orientation, then?”

Dave exhales heavily, relieved. “Yeah. That’s good. And, well.” He cracks a small grin, an offer of a truce of sorts. “I don’t think Case really would like camping all that much.”

“Is he sleeping?” Dr. Naser asks. “I ask because this note I told you about mentioned that they hadn’t been able to dislodge you from the room.”

“Uh, they were changing his bandages. And he seemed like maybe he didn’t want me to see that, so.” Dave shrugs.

She nods. “It’s good that you respect his privacy like that. Especially right now.”

“He’s just, so sad, you know? So I figure if he wants to pretend a little while longer.”

“You’re aware of what’s happened, then?” Dr. Naser asks. “If he says something about you not knowing, I’m not going to tell him anything differently. In case you wondered. It’s good to respect your privacy, too.”

“Yeah, I think— I think maybe they told me more than normally since, well.” Dave scowls and looks around. “He’s fifteen,” he says softly, shaking his head. “And the only people that have visited him have all been eighteen.”

She nods again. “That’s a lot of weight for an eighteen year old to carry, Mr. Bodyguard.”

Dave smiles slightly. “Dave. Dave Karofsky.”

“I know. Note, remember?”

“If the nurse wrote it, she probably just said I ate junk food breakfast that our friends brought.”

“Hmm. I don’t recall anything about junk food breakfast in the note, but I spoke with a nurse in the ER who said something about a flock of young gay men with coughs.”

Dave grins. “I am so telling Hudson he got lumped in with the rest of us.”

“I’m going to go in now and get started with Casey, if you wanted to come in and let him know you’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Dr. Naser says. “Go get a meal. Take a shower, maybe.”

Dave frowns but follows her in, and the nurse files out, her cart rattling in front of her. “Okay, Case?”

Casey’s a little paler than when Dave left him, but his voice doesn’t sound too shaky when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Hi, Casey. I’m Dr. Naser. They let you know I was coming to talk to you today, right?”

“Um. Yeah. Yes. They said that,” Casey says, his eyes darting between Dave and Dr. Naser.

“I’m sending your friend Dave home to have a shower,” she says. “What do you think about that? Good idea, right?” She wrinkles her nose at Dave like she can smell him from there. The corners of Casey’s mouth do that little twitch again, almost getting there.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, he should do that.”

“I can keep stinking up the place if you need me to stay,” Dave argues, though he has to admit it’s a little half-hearted. “I can’t smell that bad. Yet.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s terrible. Casey, tell him it’s terrible. It smells like a basketball team in here!”

“Hey, watch it. I’m a football player, not a basketball player,” Dave banters, making a face, like she’s insulted his honor or something.

There’s a little noise from the bed, like a soft squeak. Dave looks over at Casey, almost sure what he heard, and sure enough, Casey’s got his fingers pressed to his mouth and is giggling. Not a lot. Not loud. But a giggle. Dave can’t help but grin, pleased, because it’s the best damn sound Dave has heard in almost twenty-four hours. No, for almost a week, since Casey ran out of the choir room.

“Go get a shower, David,” Casey says. “I’ll be okay. I don’t think she’s allowed to tell me that I’m smelly.”

“It’s true. It’s in his file,” Dr. Naser assures David.

“Good to know they left me some jobs,” Dave jokes. “Okay. I’ll be back by one. You call if I need to come back sooner, though, okay?”

“You’ll be in the shower, remember?” Casey says, and a little color comes to his cheeks. “It’ll be okay.”

Dave shakes his head. “All right. You want another ring pop?”

“Oh, yes. Red plastic this time?”

“Absolutely.”

 

Casey and the psychiatrist talk a little bit about what happened, about what Dr. Naser keeps calling his _attempt_ , like he was trying to fly or training for a marathon, but just didn’t quite manage to pull off. Casey isn’t sure yet what he’s calling it. Really, he’s not calling it anything, not directly, because if he starts thinking about it too hard, that dark feeling starts to swallow him again. Mick’s voice saying “better dead”.

Apparently the goal is to figure out whether or not Casey is still a danger to himself. Dr. Naser won’t tell him what she thinks, so Casey suspects the jury is still out on that one. He tries to explain that the danger to himself is so much smaller than his danger to others, because look at what he’s done, but Dr. Naser switches the subject to David and before Casey realizes it, he’s talking about Sandman and the superhero comics David reads, and then she says something about how having feelings for someone else never struck her as particularly dangerous, and instead of arguing, Casey just blushes, because she didn’t say “being friends with”, she said “having feelings for”.

Her big thing seems to be honesty. Not oversharing, she explains, but just, “Letting other people in, telling them the truth about what’s going on in your life”. Casey thinks she expects him to argue and say he does let people in, but even Casey knows that’s not true. As much as he’s shared with David, he’s also intentionally built a lot of walls designed specifically to shield David, and the rest of the world, from the ugliness on the other side.

“I don’t like to upset anyone,” Casey says.

“Casey, you don’t think _this_ ,” Dr. Naser says, gesturing at Casey, the hospital room, the bandages on his arm, his face, “upsets people? Not knowing about it until it’s too late, that’s what upsets people.”

“I didn’t want him to know how bad it was,” Casey whispers, and of course, there’s no need to explain who ‘him’ is. “It made him so sad.”

“Casey, if you want to know what sad looks like, ask your friends what he looked like when they got here,” she answers. “You don’t protect the people you love by keeping them in the dark or lying to them. It doesn’t keep them safe. It just makes finding out the truth so much harder on both of you.”

By the time Dr. Naser leaves, Casey is exhausted again, on so many levels. Physically, mentally; tired of thinking, tired of crying, tired of hurting. Two hours of not having to pretend to keep it together were kind of a nice relief, even if the trade off was having to talk about a lot of things he didn’t particularly feel like talking about. There’s still plenty he’s not telling, but Dr. Naser said that was fine, because they only had two hours and everything is still fresh.

Casey’s funny nurse has gone home, and the new nurse isn’t as funny, though she’s big and bossy in a sort of warm way. He asks very politely for a shower and she, equally politely, tells him he can have one as soon as he eats his lunch, which is real food _and_ pudding. He eats a few bites of the roasted chicken, picks at the green beans, but eats the whole pudding container and cleans out the corners by running his fingertip around them.

“I’m not sure that’s good enough,” the new, bossy nurse tells him, but she lets him take a shower anyway, unwrapping the bandages on his arm and giving him a fresh bar of soap and a tiny bottle of shampoo.

So far, he’s really only walked to and from the bathroom, which is a short trip, so standing in the shower is kind of interesting. He feels wobbly, like he’s new at the whole concept of standing. The nurse makes him promise he’ll pull the cord if he needs help, and Casey says he will, even though he knows he won’t, because adding being seen naked by the nurse might be the final crack in his ability to not fall apart over this whole experience.

Casey washes his hair, very carefully, with the shampoo that smells faintly of lemons and faintly of hospitals, but at least it’s _clean_ hospitals and not how he probably smelled prior to getting in the shower. He really didn’t _need_ Dr. Naser to tell him that he was stinky; Casey could smell himself and that’s not a good sign. He rinses his hair, then lets water run over his face, because he’s not sure he’s ready to touch it with soap yet. By the time he’s done showering, he’s past exhausted, and he has to lean against the sink halfway through drying off.

 

Dave rubs his hand over his face and nods as he passes by the nurse’s station, even though he’s not sure he recognizes any of them. Shower, fresh clothes, and a PFLAG meeting, plus more candy and a few other things. He knocks perfunctorily on the door and then pushes it open. He frowns when he doesn’t seen Casey in the bed, and wheels around. No, no shower running either. “Case?” he says, trying not to get alarmed. They wouldn’t have taken Casey anywhere. All the X-rays were done. So where is he?

“David?” Dave hears Casey call through the bathroom door. “You’re back!”

“Oh, there you are,” Dave says, a little louder. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I just— the bed was empty, and—”

“Oh. They said I could take a shower. So I did. Take a shower. Only, um.”

“Is something wrong? Do you need me to call a nurse?”

“Can you call some pants?”

Dave wants to laugh, the request is so absurd. “Don’t think they’d answer. But, uh, I may have grabbed some stuff stashed in my closet from years ago. If you don’t mind wearing sweatpants that say property of Lima North Middle.”

“That’s better than wearing a dress. I look like I’m wearing a dress now,” Casey says. He sounds tired, but maybe a little more upbeat.

“Yeah, I’m not sure you’re cut out for a drag queen,” Dave agrees. He nudges the door open just a bit and passes Casey the sweatpants.

“Thanks, David,” Casey says, and there’s some rustling and thumping from the bathroom, before Casey pushes the door open a little. He’s wearing the sweatpants, rolled at least once at the waist, and has a hospital gown on like a robe, hanging on his shoulders and unfastened down the front. He’s paler than usual and looks exhausted, but he smiles a little at Dave. “Now I smell like air freshener. That was air freshener shampoo.”

“Air freshener?” Dave asks quizzically. “Do I want to know?”

Casey walks slowly over to the bed and clambers up, sitting with his legs curled under him. “Lemons. Smell me. It’s lemons and hospital.”

“Ohh.” Dave trails along behind him, flumping into the seat next to the bed. “Yeah, that makes sense. Air freshener.” He nods. “Everything go okay?”

Casey curls up a little smaller, but doesn’t look away from Dave. “I guess so.”

“They did bring you lunch, right?” Dave frowns.

“Pudding.”

“Bet you liked that,” Dave grins. “Anything _else_?”

“Chicken or something,” Casey shrugs. “I don’t know. The pudding was good, though. How was your shower?”

“Hot,” Dave quips. He’s not sure if he should tell Casey he went to PFLAG; not sure Casey needs to know that he was essentially the topic of discussion. Dave has a good argument for either. The drive back to the hospital didn’t help clarify anything.

“That’s, um, good?” Casey’s cheeks flush a little. “Better than cold, I guess.”

“Hey, I didn’t tell you that story so you could taunt me.” Dave shakes his head. “Seriously, you liked Dr. Naser okay? Because you know, I’m sure there’s other options.” He’s really not sure about that, at all, but he’d like to think there is.

“Yeah, she’s good. I liked her okay,” Casey answers, but he’s plucking at the blanket on the bed again and chewing on his lower lip a little. “Um. Can I tell, I mean. I need to tell you something, okay?”

“Okay, sure.”

“I didn’t tell you all the things. Um. That happened.” Casey seems to be forcing himself to look at Dave, and not away.

Dave nods slowly. “All right.”

“So. So.” Casey takes a deep breath. “I’ve, um. For kind of a while. Sometimes, when stuff is really bad. Kind of. Hurting. A little bit. Myself.”

Dave wants to blow out a huge sigh of relief, because this? This at least he knew about, even though Casey doesn’t realize that fact. But he can’t, because again – Casey doesn’t realize that fact. “Well.” Dave chews on his cheek. “Okay. You want to tell me more about that? Or, I dunno. When? Why? I don’t know what to do here, Case,” Dave admits. “I just want to help you if I can.”

Casey looks like his wishes he could turn invisible or something, his whole body tense and curled up tightly on the bed. He tugs the hospital gown closed around himself and then slowly unfolds his arm from where he’s had it tucked against his body, until Dave can see tiny scars mixed with larger wounds, like some kind of demented dot–to–dot, the start of the pattern marked by a much larger one smack in the crook of Casey’s elbow, and Dave realizes now why Casey cried out when Dave grabbed his arm, just a week ago.

“Did it—” Dave stops, thinking over what he wants to ask. “Do you. I don’t know. Do.” He chews on his cheek again. “I wish you hadn’t felt like you had to do that.”

“I’m sorry,” Casey whispers, looking and sounding so tiny. “If you need to go now, it’s okay. I understand.”

“Huh?” Dave looks at Casey, confused. “What’re you talking about?”

“If… if you don’t wanna be here now. It’s okay.”

“I’m not following you,” Dave admits. “I mean, I just grabbed a shower and some lunch, so…”

“If you think it wasn’t worth it, I mean.” Casey looks like he’s going to cry, but he keeps looking at Dave. “Now. That you know.”

“If I think what isn’t worth it?” Dave shakes his head, because surely Casey doesn’t mean what it sounds like he’s saying.

Casey shrugs, ever so slightly. “I lied to you. So much. And I’m. I mean, look at me, David. And look at _you_. You shouldn’t have to be here.”

“I don’t have to be.” Dave settles back in his chair. “This is where I want to be right now, okay?”

“But, _why_?”

“Why am I here? Because you’re my best friend. Why is that?” Dave shrugs. “Because you accept me. Just me. Az tried—is trying—but you’re the only person I know that takes _all_ the parts of me.”

“But that’s easy to do,” Casey says. “It’s not like all of this. This is a huge mess, _I’m_ a huge mess.”

“We’re all a mess, in different ways, at different times. And believe me, Case, the fact that you find it easy to do?” Dave shakes his head. “It’s a lot, Case. A lot.”

Casey sighs and slumps a little, some of the tension going out of his body. “What’s gonna happen to me, David?” he asks, in his tiny voice.

“Do you like roller coasters?” Dave asks, knowing Casey’s going to think he’s gone a little bit crazy.

The look on Casey’s face says Dave’s guess might be right. “What?”

“Roller coasters.” Dave smiles a little. “At first, there’s like this big hill, and then you plummet down, and it’s sort of awful, but then you realize the track is ups and downs and if you let yourself just get lost in it, the ups and downs both are pretty awesome.”

“I’ve never been on a roller coaster.”

“That’s a _crime_. Okay, first week that school’s out, Cedar Point.”

“Yeah? What if… what if the roller coasters are too scary?”

“You can scream in my ear. That’s half the fun, really.”

Casey looks at Dave like he’s figured him out, and he smiles a little bit. “Okay. I’ll ride on the roller coaster with you. If you really want to.”

“Good.” Dave grins.

 

After the social worker and another visit from the doctor and a picked–at dinner, Casey’s tired, David’s tired, and Casey’s not doing a good job of convincing David that the chair isn’t a good substitute for a bed, no matter how nice some people named David might claim the upholstery is. The chair isn’t even upholstered.

“I’ll be fine if you go, though,” Casey insists. “I promise I will. All I’m doing is sleeping.”

“And I’m telling you, this is fine. And you didn’t sleep all night last night so why would you tonight? This way we can both catch up on the backlog of YouTube videos we need to watch.”

“You can’t bribe me with Maru. That’s not fair. He fits into _such tiny boxes_ ,” Casey says, and yes, it’s a little squealy, but it’s _Maru_ , and Casey likes the cat videos, especially the silly titles.

“I can totally bribe you with Maru,” David says smugly, unfolding the weird chair–bed as he speaks.

“Fine, you can bribe me with Maru, _and_ some candy, _and_ you sleep on the cot. No waking up and finding you in a chair,” Casey insists. Maybe he’s a little sad that David’s unfolding the cot, because he did sleep a lot better with him in the bed, but the bed is so tiny, and David is so… not tiny. Casey can’t ask David to squish himself up like that for another night, not that he _asked_ the first night, but anyway, it’s not right.

“Ouch!” David sits down. “You drive a hard bargain. I don’t know if I can do the candy.”

“Why not?”

David laughs. “I’m just teasing you, Case.”

“You shouldn’t tease about candy. Candy is very serious,” Casey says. He tries to do a serious face, but it hurts, so he just goes with nodding slowly to indicate the seriousness of candy.

“I know it is for you. Do you go to the Church of Candy?” Dave grins. “C’mon, Case, it’s getting late.”

“Maru and candy in the morning, then.”

“Or at least the middle of the night,” David agrees.

“But I told you, I’m gonna sleep _all_ night this time. Really,” Casey insists. “If I wake up, I’ll do it super quietly.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” David says, almost like he’s serious, comically fluffing the very flat pillow before lying down on it.

Casey flips the little light switch and the room gets as dark as it’s going to get. It’s not that dark, but it’s dark enough to feel like people should be sleeping, anyway. Casey tosses around on the bed a little, trying to find a cooler spot on the weird lumpy mattress, or at least, that’s what Casey tells himself the problem is.

“You need to get another blanket, Case? They said to call if you were cold.”

“No, I’m okay, I guess.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Casey says. “This bed is weird.”

“There is something strange about sleeping with the upper half of the body slightly elevated,” David agrees.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s that.”

“Night, Case. Try to sleep.”

“Okay, David. I’ll sleep. You, too, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” David jokes.

The room gets quiet, though hospital–quiet is like hospital–dark, not complete and punctuated by hospital noises, calls coming over the intercom system, carts rattling down the hallway, an occasional ambulance siren from outside the building. David seems to fall asleep quickly, his breathing slow and regular, and Casey lies there for a while listening to him.

 

There’s a faint whimper that’s enough to wake Dave, and he would roll over if the chair–bed would allow such a thing. “Case?”

“Hmm? David?” Casey’s voice is soft and confused. “Okay?”

“Everything okay?” Dave asks, even though it’s stupid, because no, everything’s not okay, but at least everything should be for the _night_.

“I think I had a dream.”

“Ohh.” Dave nods, even though Casey can’t see him. “Bad one? Or just weird?”

“Weird. And bad.” Casey rolls over onto his side, so his voice is much closer to Dave. “I called you on the phone, and it rang and rang and rang, but I couldn’t hang it up.”

“Oh.” Dave doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t really want to think about the last time Casey did call him on the phone. “That is kind of weird. Like the phone wouldn’t let you go.”

“I couldn’t make my hands do it, hang up the phone. I think they were very far away or something. It was really weird.” Casey sounds more awake now, less confused. “I’m sorry, David. I promised I’d wake up quietly if I woke up.”

“Which was silly,” Dave argues, shaking his head.

“I hate this bed,” Casey whispers, fiercely.

“What about it?” Dave asks, softly.

“It feels weird.”

“Hmmm.” Dave doesn’t know what that means. A tiny voice in his brain says that maybe Casey feels weird because he’s actually _safe_ in his sleep.

“It feels _big_. It’s too high up and it’s too big.” Casey’s complaints are almost comical, and Dave imagines an exaggerated sort of scowl on his face.

“Does that mean it’s time for Maru?”

“I guess so,” Casey sighs. “I really didn’t mean to wake you up. Stupid dream.”

“I was hoping there would be another box that Maru couldn’t get into, really.” Dave walks over to grab his laptop and then settles on the bed next to Casey. Casey leans against him without really seeming to notice he’s doing it.

“Someday, I want a cat like Maru,” Casey says. “I’ve never had a pet.”

“I had two gerbils. Oh, and a guinea pig.”

“It seems weird to have rodents for pets. Are they good pets? My da—” Casey stops himself short and leans against Dave a little harder.

Dave decides to ignore the slip, at least for the night. “They were kind of fun. Short-lived, though.”

“Maybe I’ll get a parrot. Or a tortoise. Those live a long time. I don’t want to get attached to something that’s, you know.” He gets quiet again for a while. “Hey, David?”

“Yeah?”

“When did you know? About. You know, about you.”

“Everyone always says that they knew for a long time or whatever. That’s what I read. But I really didn’t.” Dave pauses. “Some guys were into girls a lot earlier than others, you know? I just figured I was one of the later ones, for a long time.”

Casey nods against Dave’s arm. “How’d you know?”

“I guess about the time even the stragglers were showing interest. I didn’t want to admit it. I kept telling myself I was just waiting for the right girl to come along.” Dave snorts. “But obviously that never happened. And over the course of sophomore year, I sort of realized why.” He sighs. “I wasn’t real happy about it, either.”

“No? Because of how other people would act?”

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t what _I_ had planned. You know, when you think about the future and all of that. To be fair, I’d never planned on a wife or kids, either.”

“I was ten.”

“Yeah?”

Casey nods again, and when he start speaking again, his voice is soft and like he’s far away. “My dad was watching television. He watches a lot of television. There was a show, some show, I don’t know what it was, and I guess there were guys and they kissed. My dad got mad about it, really mad, and he yelled about how gross it was, and how he oughta be able to watch the television without watching two fags kissing.” Casey pauses for a breath. “But all I thought was that kissing a boy didn’t sound like it was an awful thing to do, it sounded pretty nice, actually. That’s when I realized I might be what my dad was talking about.”

“Wow. I don’t know if it makes it easier or harder to know that soon.”

“I think maybe it helped. I mean, I was already old enough to figure out I wasn’t supposed to say anything about it.”

Dave sighs, because that makes him kind of sad. “Yeah. I think we all learn that fast.”

“I think… I think if I’d realized that it wasn’t going to make a difference either way,” Casey says, and he sounds _bitter_. “I don’t know, if I’d known, I might have gone around kissing boys for spite or something.”

Dave has an absurd image of Casey just kissing random boys, any boys, boys he doesn’t even know, and it’s either hilarious or sort of stomach–clenching. “You could have a YouTube channel,” he finally says, trying for hilarity.

“Well, it didn’t matter, anyway. Apparently it wasn’t the kissing that was the problem, though, if I’d known…” Casey shrugs. “I mean, I was already in for a penny, I could have gone for the pound.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Dave acknowledges.

“Well, what’s another way? I don’t like my way.”

“I don’t know,” Dave answers honestly. “It just seems like there should be others.”

“Especially since I don’t think a plan for kissing lots of boys is going to work out that well. I mean, there’s a limited number of boys for that, and then what do I do? I’d have to start traveling, and that’s so time consuming.”

“Oh, you were going to limit it to the gay ones?” Dave forces himself to laugh. “I sort of thought maybe something like Hudson’s kissing booth last year.”

“I don’t know that anybody would pay for it. I mean, I’m not a football player. Also, I’m not very tall, and I think you have to be tall for people to pay for it,” Casey says.

“Oh, I figured you’d just like, set up at the front of the cafeteria. ‘No lunch without a kiss’.”

“See, now I just sound desperate in your version. I don’t think I like your version very much. Besides, I don’t want to kiss all the boys at school.”

“I was thinking of it as a public service. Some of them would die of a heart attack, and no one would have to deal with them anymore.” He shrugs. “But, a good point. Okay. So, travelling, huh? Start with Ohio?”

“Well, I don’t think I want to start with an interstate spree of murder by kissing,” Casey says, and he sounds a little huffy. “And anyway I’m probably not _that_ bad at it.”

“What? No, I didn’t mean you were bad at it! Just that the shock of kissing a boy would overwhelm their tiny brains.”

“Lima teen kisses straight boys to death. Stay tuned for special coverage.”

“Maybe Brittany will interview you for Fondue for Two.”

“Well, I guess that’d be one way to keep me from ever getting _anybody_ to kiss me, so problem solved,” Casey sighs. “I’m going to try a new plan, a plan of never kissing anybody ever, and I’ll live alone in a cave and I’ll grow hemp. And I’ll weave my own clothes.”

“Hemp, huh? I don’t know, Case. It’s better be a southern cave, to be warm enough with just hemp.”

“Then I can visit you when you’re at Georgia Tech. They have caves in Georgia, I bet. Seems like a cave kind of place,” Casey offers. “You can visit at my cave, too. No death by kissing, I promise.”

“Okay. I’ll add that to tomorrow’s to-do list: research caves in Georgia.”

“Good,” Casey says. “So… did you ever get used to it? Things not being how you planned?”

“Honestly? Still getting there. Some days are better than others. I didn’t handle it that well, at _all_ , at first, and I still, some days.” Dave shakes his head. “I’m at the point where I know that one day I will be used to it.”

“So, what happens when you get used to it? Fancy hats? Oh, we could have a party!”

Dave laughs. “Nah. I think maybe I’d just like myself a little more then, finally.”

“You should like you now,” Casey says. “I like you. You’re likable.”

“I’m working on it, Case.”

“Work harder,” Casey says, and he kind of nudges Dave a little. “Because I think you’re awesome. And I wanna see what happens when you think that, too.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Dave half–grumbles, the corners of his lips twitching. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Mm, okay,” Casey answers, and he sort of relaxes against Dave, leaning more heavily. “Good plan. I like that plan.”

“Ready to sleep again?”

“Mmhmm,” Casey sighs. “Good plan.”

“Okay,” Dave replies softly, setting his closed laptop off the bed and closing his own eyes.

 

“I’m really not all that hungry,” Casey says, poking at the meat on his lunch tray. It’s been identified as Salisbury steak, in theory, but the only really interesting things still on the tray are the mashed potatoes and a slice of carrot cake. Casey already ate the cup of diced pineapple.

“Well, the pineapple says differently,” David points out. “C’mon, you heard what the nurse said.”

“Yeah, if she thinks it’s so important then _she_ can eat it,” Casey grumbles, and he’s vaguely aware that he sounds ridiculous and he’s being grumpy for no good reason, but really, his mouth hurts, and his stomach hurts, and he doesn’t feel much like eating.

“Is it that you aren’t hungry?” David asks. “Or just that the, uh, steak looks like a grey brick?”

“I think it’s made out of cat. Or playdough.”

“Overcooked homemade playdough,” David suggests, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You can _make_ that?” Casey’s shocked. He never thought about playdough being something you can make at home. “Yeah, yeah, it probably looks like that, though.”

“Yeah, they make it all the time for the little kids at church,” David explains. “Anyway. Okay. So leave the playdough out of the equation. What do I have to do to get you to eat the rest of it?”

“Um. You eat it and we’ll say it was me?”

“Bzzzz. Wrong answer.” David grins.

“I give it back to the nurse and say something rude?” Casey suggests, though he smiles back at David. He can’t help it. “I’m sure I can come up with _something_. I could tell her, oh, I could tell her the food _sucks_!” He puts as much emphasis on the last word as he can.

“Well, you can do that _after_ you eat it,” David says with a laugh. “That way she’ll know you really mean it.” He scans the room with his eyes, like he’s looking for something.

“I’ll eat the cake.”

David shakes his head. “Not just the cake…” His voice trails off for a moment. “Aha!” He stands up and cross to the small table. “We’ll play poker. You lose a hand, you eat five bites.”

“What if I win? I might be really good at poker,” Casey says. “I mean, I have no idea if I am, but I could be.”

“When you win a hand, you take one bite of cake.”

“Hey! That’s not fair! That’s a five to one ratio in favor of the homemade playdough meat!”

“You don’t have to eat the playdough, just the mashed potatoes and the green beans and stuff.”

Casey pretends to think it over carefully, but David looks pretty set on Casey eating the rest of that lunch, which means Casey’s going to end up eating it either way. “Okay, _fine_!” He presses his lips together to conceal a smile, keep his face straight. “I think we should play strip poker.”

David looks like he’s choking for a few minutes, then looks down at himself and blinks. “I’m wearing about seventeen more pieces of clothing than you, starting with shoelaces.”

“I don’t think shoelaces count,” Casey says, repressing giggles. “And didn’t I already say I might be a really good poker player? I bet the nurses would _love_ that!” He leans over and whispers to David, “The bossy one thinks you’re haaaandsome.”

David makes a face. “Eww, God, Case, are you trying to make me puke?”

Casey can’t keep a straight face any more, so he lets the laugh he’s been holding back burst out. “Gosh, David, you are so _easy_!”

“Just for that, eat some green beans!” David teases, pointing at the tray before starting to shuffle the deck of cards.

Casey spears a few green beans on his fork and eats them with dramatically over–exaggerated bites. It makes his face hurt, but it’s worth it, and they aren’t that bad, really. They need salt or something, but they taste like green beans and not like can, which is nice.

“All right.” David sits down with an exaggerated sense of purposefulness. “So this is poker.” He deals the cards and explains the rules, and Casey keeps his face serious throughout, listening and nodding and trying very hard not to crack a smile. “Ready?” David finally asks.

“Sure, I guess I can give it a try,” Casey sighs. Dave deals the cards and they banter back and forth a little. “My cards are _awesome_ ,” Casey warns David.

“Oh, really?” David raises one eyebrow. “Maybe you want to up the stakes?”

“Yeah, like what? You want to switch to strip poker, because I can hit the nurse button and see if the bossy one wants to come in here,” Casey says, raising his eyebrows.

David snorts. “I was thinking more like 2 bites and 10 bites.”

“Four and Six.”

“Three and eight.”

“Three and eight, and a piece of candy.”

“Three and eight, and a _small_ piece of candy.”

“You drive a hard bargain, David,” Casey says, shaking his head. “But I guess that’ll work. Oh, hey, the red cards’re worth more points than the black ones, right?”

David guffaws. “Very clever, Case.”

Casey grins and feels his cheeks heating up. “Okay, okay. So… I guess show me what you’ve got. The _cards_ , I mean!”

“Pair of queens.” He stops in the middle of laying down the cards and laughs. “Uh.”

Casey quirks his head at David for a minute, and then he gets it. “Oh. Oh!” He starts to laugh. “That’s like, the best hand ever.”

“I know, right?” David is still laughing. “Top that!”

For some reason, Casey laughs even harder at that. “Um. Okay, okay. I’ve uh, got this one and this one,” Casey says, still giggling and putting down a six of spades and a four of diamonds. “But I also have these three, and they’re nice because they all match so perfectly!”  
He puts down his three jacks.

David leans back and shakes his head. “Damn. Three bites of cake for you, then.”

“How about, if I eat eight bites of the other food too, next time, I get five bites of cake?” Casey suggests.

“Nope. You might finish all the cake before the end of the games, and then you’d bankrupt me, having to go buy more and more cake.”

“I like more and more cake,” Casey says, but he takes bites of the mashed potatoes and green beans anyway. “Hey, these are pretty good!”

“At least they abandoned the playdough for something!” David jokes, then deals the next hand.

By the time they’re done playing, Casey realizes he’s eaten all of his potatoes, green beans, the roll, the cake, and even some of the gravy from the playdough meat, plus three pieces of candy. David appears pleased with the outcome, though whether it’s because of Casey’s eating or winning more hands, it’s hard to tell.

 

“All I ever do any more is eat,” Casey complains. “You keep making me eat. I’m _tired_ of all this eating.” He flings himself back in the bed, fork still in hand.

“It could be worse,” David shrugs. “It could be like, I dunno. Cold porridge.”

“Then at least there’d be _singing_ ,” Casey insists. “You should sing something. Then I’d feel better.”

“I’ll invite the entire glee club to give you a preview of whatever it is they’re doing, if it makes you eat?” David suggests, grinning.

“I don’t want the entire glee club. Just you. You sing something,” Casey says, grinning back at David. “I’ll, um, eat. All the things.”

“I sense a plot.”

“I’m very tricky that way.”

“There’s a hidden camera, isn’t there? You’ve been talking to the A/V club.”

Casey laughs at the mental image of trying to sneak Lauren Zizes into his hospital room while David is looking in the other direction. “I’d never do that! Well, okay, I might do that, but I think you’d probably notice the cameras. There’s not really a lot of places to hide them. I know, I checked.”

“See! I knew it!” David says triumphantly, and Casey feels a little tingle in his whole body at the look on David’s face. Triumphant David is… very nice to look at.

“You, um,” Casey says, his face hot. “Don’t have to. Sing. I’ll just, um, move stuff around on my plate a little bit.”

“It might work with me, but I doubt it will with the nurse,” David points out, just as there’s a quiet knock on the door. Casey gives David a quizzical look, because the nurses really don’t knock and they aren’t expecting anyone else, as far as he knows.

“Boys?” There’s a familiar voice after the knock.

“Dad, hey,” David answers, raising his voice a little. “C’mon.”

The door pushes in and Paul enters, smiling slightly and carrying a large bag. “I bring provisions.”

“Hi, David’s Dad,” Casey says, suddenly feeling self-conscious about, well, everything. His hospital shirt, the situation he’s in, that he’s been monopolizing David for some long period of time he can’t quite put his finger on, because his date math isn’t working and he’s not entirely sure what day it is or was.

“Good to see you awake, Casey,” Paul responds, pulling a smaller bag from the large one and handing it to him, before handing the large bag to David. “Thought you boys might be hungry for something other than hospital food.”

“Hospital food is, um.” Casey says, opening the small bag. “Oh, pies! Thank you!”

David looks up from his perusal of the contents of the large bag, one hand around a Big Mac. “Yeah, thanks, Dad.” He shoots Casey a look. “Food, then pies. If you eat fast enough, the pies will still be warm.”

Casey tries to scowl at David, but that’s probably never going to be effective, since all he wants to do when he looks at David is smile. “Fiiiine. I’ll eat the food, even if I don’t really think it counts as food.” He puts down the bag of pies, then shovels the mac n’ cheese or whatever it is it’s supposed to be into his mouth as quickly as possible, then washes it down with the little container of watery applesauce. “See? I ate.”

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” David teases.

“That’s easy to say when you’ve got a Big Mac, David,” Casey points out. “That mac n’ cheese had some kind of plastic ham in it. It was really weird.”

“Somehow I suspect you’d complain about a Big Mac, too,” David says with a shake of his head.

“All right, boys,” Paul interrupts. “Casey, while you’re eating your pies, I wanted to tell you a little bit about what’s been going on.”

Suddenly, Casey isn’t so sure he wants his pies. Or to know a little bit about what’s going on.

“I think the social worker mentioned that you won’t be going back to your, ah, house. They’re going to want to evaluate a more permanent placement or something – I’m not sure how it all works, honestly,” Paul admits, “but for at least a month or two, you’re welcome to come to our house.”

Casey looks over at David, who doesn’t look surprised. “Your house?” Casey hears himself parroting back. He isn’t sure he’s processing what he’s hearing. “Like the one where you live?”

“Yes, our house,” Paul repeats, nodding.

Casey can’t stop looking between Paul and David. Why? Why would they want him in their house? Hasn’t he already caused enough trouble? “But, David’s already, I mean, he’s been here for so long, he’s already done too much,” Casey says, not able to articulate exactly what he’s feeling, or maybe just not wanting to.

“It’s not the largest place in town, but there’s plenty of room,” Paul assures him. “I know David would annoy the hell out of anyone else you went to live with, anyway,” he adds, grinning at his son.

“Are you sure?” Casey says, and he tries to say it in his loud voice, but it only comes out as a whisper.

“We’re sure,” Paul says firmly. “Really.”

“David?” Casey looks at David for something, reassurance maybe. He isn’t sure.

“As long as you can handle two Karofskys bugging you about how much you’re eating.”

“I’ll eat everything. I’ll even eat the playdough meat,” Casey says, and it’s takes every bit of his conscious effort not to get too excited, not to hop up and down on the bed or do something else ridiculous and too enthusiastic.

“Well, hopefully there won’t be eating of playdough,” Paul says slowly, looking mystified. “But I’m glad to hear you’ll be eating.”

“David even makes me eat the weird stuff,” Casey nods. “I’ll be very quiet at your place. I won’t take up a lot of room or anything. I’ll, um. I’ll be very quiet.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Paul chuckles. “If you’re too quiet, I might not notice you and sit on you. Squashing of minors is highly frowned upon.”

“I promise I won’t get squashed. I won’t be any trouble, well, any more trouble. Than I have been already. I’ll _try_ to not be trouble. I’ll try very hard.” Casey feels like he can’t stop talking, like Paul might change his mind any minute when the reality of the trouble–potential that Casey brings with him sinks in. “I’m very good at shoveling snow.”

Paul exchanges an indecipherable glance with David, then chuckles again, though it sounds a little different. “Well, I think we’re all glad that winter’s nearly over.”

“David’s Dad. Mister Karofsky. Um. Just, just _thank you_ ,” Casey says, blinking his eyes rapidly because they’re _tired_ , not because they’re tearing up. Tired. And his voice breaks a little because it’s tired, too. “Thank you so much. So, so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Paul says simply. “Now, I believe that once you meet with Dr. Naser again tomorrow, you’ll be free of this place and its food.” He smiles a little. “I think it will be easier to eat away from the, what did you say? Plastic ham.”

Casey nods his head rapidly. “I think it’s really made of plastic! David, you saw it, it looked like real plastic!”

“Sure, Case,” David agrees, finishing up what might actually be a second Big Mac. “They have to cut corners somehow.”

 

Dave looks up from his computer, cursing the hard plastic of the waiting area chairs, to see Dr. Naser standing in front of him. “Oh, hey. Dr. Naser.”

“Hello, Mr. Bodyguard,” she says, with that same amused expression she wore last time when she looked at him.

“How’s— I mean, he still gets to leave today, right?”

“Yes, I’m going to sign off on that,” she assures Dave. “Your father’s going to be bringing him over to see me once a week.” She looks at Dave appraisingly, lifts an eyebrow. “Or, I suppose, you are.”

“Bodyguard and chauffeur services,” Dave agrees with a little nod.

Dr. Naser returns the nod. “I’ve spoken with your father at great length and I know I don’t have to tell you to keep an eye on Casey,” she begins, then pauses, seeming to want a response from Dave. Dave nods, frowning a little.

“Good. Casey needs a friend. The Mr. Bodyguard thing, I don’t think that’s bad for him, either. He hasn’t exactly had a lot of people looking out for him and he definitely doesn’t have a lot of people he trusts right now. The list is short and you’re at the top of it.” Again, the appraising look. “So, keep looking out for him. That’s a good thing. Be his friend and keep doing what you’re doing. Just…”

Dave looks at her blankly, a little confused. “Just?”

“Casey thinks the sun rises on your command, and maybe he needs someone like that in his life, too, but that means he’s not always going to make the best choices. Where you’re concerned.” Dr. Naser looks at David pointedly. “You can’t be Mr. Bodyguard _and_ be that, too, and frankly, he needs Mr. Bodyguard more than he need anything else.”

Dave swallows. “The thing is, ma’am. I can’t— I’m not. I’m not healthy, either, frankly.” He shakes his head. “It’s not. He’s not the only one it’d be bad for.”

“I’m glad you realize that,” Dr. Naser says, gently. “He’s not going to be able to. Not now, anyway.”

“No,” Dave agrees, nodding. “I know. And, uh. He’s fifteen,” he adds, sheepish.

“That’s true. He is fifteen,” she says. “Well, I’m glad we talked about this, awkward though it may be.” Dr. Naser smiles. “I’m going to go get started on some paperwork. It’ll probably be an hour or so, they’ll probably want to come back in and give him the once-over and the whole spiel on what he needs to do once he gets home, in terms of follow-up, and then there shouldn’t be any reason why you and your father can’t take him home.”

“Okay, great,” Dave nods, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , Mr. Bodyguard.”

 

Buckling himself into David’s truck feels surreal. “This is kind of weird,” Casey says, clicking the seatbelt in. “I feel weird.”

“It’s because there’s not any new snow on the ground,” David says solemnly. “It’s been almost a week. Freaky, right?”

“Maybe,” Casey answers. Almost a week since it snowed. He feels like he’s lost time, he’s not even sure exactly what day things happened. “Just. The last time I was in your truck, you know?” He shrugs.

“Yeah,” David nods in agreement. “I know.”

“From sugar cookies to this.” Casey looks out the window of the truck as Dave pulls out of the St. Rita’s parking deck. “I don’t know.” Somewhere in there, in the week between the dance and his _attempt_ or whatever they’re going to call it, if they ever call it anything, everything fell apart, and Casey still can’t make sense of how. What were the steps? Was it as sudden as it felt, or did he miss everything? It felt like being pushed off a cliff.

“Well, what I do know is we’re going by the Dairy King drive-through before home.”

That, at least, makes sense. “I do like milkshakes.”

“You have to eat an entire burger, too.”

“I can eat a _small_ one,” Casey offers.

“Single. Not a kid–size.”

“Kid–size, but I’ll eat cheese on it, too,” Casey counters.

“Nope, the meat’s got more, uh, stuff in it. Than cheese. Single.”

“It’s probably not fair that you always win,” Casey says, not that he’s really put out by it at all. He likes the food–related back–and–forth more than he likes the food, honestly. “But okay, a single… if I can have a milkshake _first_.”

“With.”

“I’ll, um. I’ll alternate! How’s that?”

“Perfect,” David finally agrees with a sharp nod and a quirk of his lips.

“This still feels weird,” Casey adds. “I feel like I was in the hospital for, I don’t know. A long time. It felt like a really long time. Like forever.”

“Because it was so… boring?” David offers. “Beige? Bland? Definitely something with a ‘b,’ clearly.”

“It was hard to keep track of the days. It’s been a little hard. To do that.” Casey breathes on the window until it fogs up in a circle, then presses his nose against it and makes a print. “I keep forgetting the days.”

“I may have checked my watch more than once,” David admits. “It feels like we were outside of time, or something.”

“It all feels very. Not real. Too real? One of those?” Casey says. “Like part of me keeps feeling like, I’m here in this truck, only, I almost. I mean, I could’ve.”

David doesn’t answer, just nods, and Casey can see him swallow, hard, like he’s got a lump in his throat. Casey’s heart hurts, seeing that, knowing he made David feel like that, and Casey realizes that he’s apologized to David for upsetting him, for putting him through this, for all the trouble he’s caused, but he’s never told David that he’s glad David got to him in time. He really hasn’t been sure until right now that he _is_ glad.

“David?” Casey says softly.

“Sorry, yeah. Uh, what’d you want on that burger?” David says, his voice a little too loud and a little too hearty.

“David,” Casey repeats, voice still soft, because it’s hard to say it any louder. “I don’t want to die. Okay? I don’t want to.”

“Okay,” David nods. “That’s… that’s good.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t talk about it any more right now,” Casey say, because David clearly doesn’t want him to. He slides down in his seat a little. “Cheese is good. Mustard. Pickles, maybe.”

“No mayo?”

“Mayo on burgers is just _weird_ , David.”

Other than ordering food at the drive-through, the rest of the drive is mostly silent. David holds the steering wheel too hard and Casey presses his face against the window glass, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut about all of that and just let David bribe him into eating in peace. Everything that’s happened, it’s like a weight, just hanging from both of them, and there’s nothing Casey can say to fix what he’s done.

David’s clearly right about the lack of snowfall; everything on the sidewalks and streets is ugly and grey, and it’s a relief from the monotony when David pulls into his driveway, hitting the garage door opener and then pulling inside and turning off the truck. “Bring the burger in,” he says mildly, gesturing to the three or four remaining bites that Casey is trying to hide in the wrapper. Casey sighs and carries the burger in with him when he follows David into the house. David didn’t say “eat”, anyway. He just said “bring”.

David leads Casey into the house, but doesn’t stop in the kitchen or even the living room, heading up the stairs and into the room across from David’s, the one that used to be Paul’s office, which isn’t an office any more.

“David, all my things are in here,” Casey says. His books and graphic novels are neatly placed on a small bookshelf, no brick needed. His computer and a few of his other belongings are tucked into various spots around the room. “These are my things. And they’re here.”

“Uh, yeah?” David looks confused. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“I just. I mean, I didn’t think that anybody would.” Casey stops talking, because he’s not really making sentences so much as little choppy word bits that don’t make much sense. “Somebody brought them here. Your dad. He? Did he bring them here?”

“Yeah, he did,” David nods. “So, you know. Feel free to move stuff around if you want to.”

“I should fix my books,” Casey says. “The order, I mean. It’s important to keep your books in order.”

“In order?” David looks incredulous. “Okay,” he adds, shaking his head and grinning a little. “Dork.”

“Yes,” Casey agrees, returning David’s grin. “I totally am.”


	4. 3x21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reactions, ripple effects, righteous behavior, revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for 3x21 "Statistic"](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9AED102CD35DDF56)

“Fuck.” Puck stops in the doorway and leans against it. “How— You said St. Rita’s—?”

“He called David, for whatever reason. Thank god.”

“Yeah.” Puck closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Ready?”

Kurt nods and grabs Puck’s hand, clenching it tightly as they walk the few steps to Finn’s room. “Finn?”

“Yeah? What’s up guys?” Finn looks up from his phone, where he’s playing Angry Birds. When he sees the looks on their faces, he drops the phone. “Oh, shit, what’s wrong? Something’s wrong.”

“We need to go,” Kurt says, his voice shaking a little. “All of us.”

“Where are we going? Is it Burt?” Finn scrambles up from the bed, yanking off his pajama pants and pulling on his jeans. “Kurt, is it your dad?”

Kurt shakes his head. “It’s Casey.”

Finn reacts in the same way Puck initially did. “His dad? Do we need to go pick him up or something?”

“No.” Kurt closes his eyes and shakes his head. “He…”

“He tried to kill himself,” Puck finishes, quietly.

Finn’s mouth drops open and he gets that vague, puzzled look on his face that he gets when something just doesn’t make any sense to him. “What? What are you— that doesn’t make any sense, Puck! Who told you that, that doesn’t make any sense!”

“David called. From St. Rita’s,” Kurt says.

“Well, he’s gotta be confused. It had to be Casey’s dad. I mean, it had to be, right?” He looks at Puck for confirmation. “Right, man?”

Puck shakes his head slowly. “Remember when we said you didn’t want to know the worst case scenario? It’s, it’s – statistics, dude, this is as close to worst case as you ever want to get.”

Finn keeps looking from Puck to Kurt, like someone will explain it in a way that makes more sense or just makes it better. “Kurt?”

“GLBTQ youth are two to three times more likely to attempt suicide than their straight peers,” Kurt says in a flat monotone. “Other studies suggest it’s up to four times more likely. Over thirty percent of GLBTQ teenagers attempt suicide.”

“Uhh, Kurt? Are you…” Finn turns to Puck. “Is he gonna be ok?”

Puck just shrugs, pulling Kurt close. “C’mon. Let’s go. I’ll drive. Call Burt.”

“I’ll drive,” Finn says. “You and Kurt sit in the back and call Burt.”

Puck doesn’t have the strength to argue, just fishes his keys out of his pocket and hands them to Finn, propelling Kurt down the stairs and out to the Nav. He pulls his phone out once they’re in and Finn’s started the Nav.

The phone rings twice and Burt answers. “Puck? Hey kid, is everything—”

“It’s Casey,” Puck interrupts him. “Karofsky called, we’re going to St. Rita’s, Casey tried—”

“Goddammit!” There’s a crash of something in the background. “Kurt’s ok? He’s not driving, is he?”

“No, Finn’s driving. Kurt’s, um.” Puck exhales and looks down at Kurt’s head, pillowed on his chest. “In shock, I think.”

“Listen, I’m gonna call Paul, see if I can figure out what’s going on,” Burt says, his voice gruff. “You take care of my boy and I’ll meet you guys over at the hospital as fast as I can. Tell Kurt I love him.”

“Yeah, ok. Always.” Puck disconnects the call without saying anything else, and looks up to meet Finn’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Puck?” Finn says, softly, like he’s afraid to say it any louder. “Karofsky? Is he…”

“It took Kurt a little while to understand what he was saying,” Puck admits softly. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck,” Finn mutters. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He speeds the Nav up a little and within another two minutes, they’re pulling into the unloading area of the ER. “Go, I’ll find you after I park,” Finn insists.

“Valet around the corner,” Puck responds with a nod, unbuckling his seatbelt and Kurt’s as well, then tugging Kurt out of the Nav and shutting the door. Finn pulls away, tires squealing, and Puck frowns when Kurt doesn’t even flinch.

Puck doesn’t have to ask where to go, when they walk through the ER doors. “Just TELL ME!” echoes through the hall, and Kurt rouses a little.

“Oh, god,” he whispers, and Puck squeezes his hand.

“C’mon, blue eyes.” Puck waves off the inquiries of the woman behind the desk, just following the sound of bellows and crashes and demands, and Puck can’t even imagine how Kurt managed to understand Karofsky on the phone.

Finn appears next to Puck, coughing and breathing hard, and puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Where—” he begins, but clearly he hears the commotion after that, and just follows them down the hall.

They round a corner and finally find Karofsky, a tiny nurse standing in front of him, and Puck vaguely remembers someone kidding Karofsky about being an Eagle Scout. It’s probably the only reason he’s not punched the woman who appears to be stopping him from going any further back.

“I’m _sorry_ , son, but I can’t let you go back there! No, you have to go back and sit down!” She keeps side-stepping to block his attempts to go around her. “You have to go and _sit_ now, son!”

“David,” Kurt says. “David. David.”

Karofsky turns, looking wild-eyed. “Kurt.” His eyes flick to Puck and Finn. “Guys. They won’t tell me anything. _Anything_.”

“I’m trying to explain to him, I _can’t_ ,” the nurse says. “Parents or legal guardians only.”

“His parents don’t even care!” Karofsky explodes. “His dad beat him up yesterday and she just _let_ him, like she always lets him. She didn’t even come to the hospital and she was _there_!”

Puck closes his eyes, and then exchanges a long look with Kurt, before they turn to Finn. Finn nods, and puts one arm up, trying to direct Karofsky away from the nurse. “Karofsky. Dave, dude, come here. Let ‘em talk to her, ok? Come on.” Karofsky lets himself be half–dragged to the closest seat and forcibly sat in it by Finn, who keeps up a constant stream of muttered instructions.

Puck takes a deep breath and steps closer to the nurse, Kurt beside him. “Hi. I know you can’t tell us anything specific about our friend Casey. But maybe—” He looks at Kurt, realizing suddenly he doesn’t know the _how_.

“In general, maybe you could tell us what _would_ happen. If someone took pills and then some kind of alcohol.”

The nurse looks from Kurt to Puck, and sighs. “In general, they would likely administer activated charcoal or pump this hypothetical person’s stomach. Depending how much this person took and what he took, they may administer a medication to counteract the effects. If this person weren’t breathing, they may have to intubate, but that’s hopefully not the case in this hypothetical situation, especially since he was breathing on his own in the ambulance. Hypothetically.”

“Okay. Okay.” Puck nods. “Hypothetically, how long would it be before he could have visitors? And do they—” he blanches. “No, oh, no… psychiatrist.”

Kurt stiffens beside him. “How many psychiatrists have privileges at this hospital?”

“Not many, but we do have a pediatric psychiatrist who comes over from Dayton as needed,” the nurse says. “In theory. That’s not the immediate concern, though. They won’t worry about that until they’re sure your— this hypothetical patient is stable.”

Puck jerks his head towards Karofsky, who’s still sitting beside Finn, miraculously. “How long before he can see him, yeah?”

The nurse shakes her head. “I don’t know, honey,” she sighs, and looks around to make sure nobody else can overhear her. “It’s a complicated situation. That boy’s not in good shape and there are other complicating factors.”

“Can you tell us if the paperwork has started to remove him from his parents’ guardianship?” Kurt asks quietly. “There’s… a number of us, prepared to offer what we know.”

“I really can’t tell you anything,” she says, “but a social worker may be coming into the seating area to speak with your friend there. Let me write down your names, in case they need to speak with the rest of you, hypothetically.”

“Thank you,” Puck exhales, nodding. He gives her all four of their names, and she cocks her head when she hears Finn’s last name.

“Hudson? Any relation to Carole Hudson?”

“His mom, my stepmom,” Kurt nods.

“If you can keep your friend, David, right? Keep David sitting there,” the nurse says. “I’m going to run and call Carole down here. She might be able to do something for him”

“Okay. Okay,” Kurt nods, and they turn towards Karofsky, who is staring at his hands blankly. Puck raises an eyebrow at Finn, who just shakes his head, the tiniest possible motion. The nurse hurries off to the desk.

Kurt leans heavily against Puck, and Puck pulls him into a tight embrace. They stand there, not moving, until the nurse returns. “Your stepmom’s on her way down, honey,” she says, patting Kurt on the arm. “She’s going to come take care of you guys.”

Kurt nods. “Thank you.” He pauses for a second, looking at her. “Janis. Thank you, Janis.” He turns to Puck, then, like something occurred to him. “You grabbed your backpack.”

“Yeah,” Puck admits. “I dunno why. I guess ‘cause my wallet was in it.”

“Take a Xanax,” Kurt says quietly. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Puck exhales. “Yeah, good point.” He moves to the water fountain and does just that, straightening as Carole and Burt arrive in the hallway from opposite directions.

Carole flings her arms around Finn, then Kurt, then Puck, and finally Karofsky, even though Puck’s not sure she’s really ever met him before. “Oh, oh, boys,” she says, and her eyes are full of tears. “I’m going to go talk to the floor supervisor, okay? Hold on, Dave.”

As Carole hurries back through the swinging double doors that Janis had been guarding, Burt grabs Kurt into a tight hug. “You okay, Kurt? You holding up?”

Kurt nods. “I’m okay, Dad. I’m— we’re okay.”

“Like hell you are, but you’re a good kid,” Burt says, squeezing Kurt tighter before releasing him. “Puckerman,” he says, before pulling Puck into a similarly fierce hug. Burt then migrates over to Finn and Karofsky, giving them the same treatment. Finn wraps his free arm around Burt and hugs back, but Karofsky barely seems to react, which isn’t a good sign.

Carole returns then, almost unconsciously leaning into Burt. “Dave, sweetie, I need you to stay calm, and come with me, okay?”

Karofsky looks up. “Case?”

“I’m going to take you back to him, okay? He’s awake but he’s really confused and agitated. Can you come with me?”

Puck can feel something in his chest uncoil when Carole says _awake_ , and he and Kurt slide down the wall, sitting against it. Karofsky stands up, nodding almost eagerly, and follows Carole through the magic double doors.

“He’s awake,” Kurt repeats.

“Baruch hashem,” Puck whispers.

“Thank God,” Burt sighs.

Finn just puts one arm each around Kurt and Puck and hugs them tightly, then turns his face to the side and coughs like he’s been holding it in since they got there, which he probably has been. He sways on his feet a little.

Puck takes a look at them, then; Artie would be impressed by Kurt’s outfit, but they all look just like they really did roll out bed. Burt still has grease on one hand, and his face is contorted like he’s trying not to cry. “Should we go back to the main waiting area?” Kurt finally whispers.

Burt nods. “I think we should do that. Paul’ll be here soon and I don’t want him wandering all over the place trying to figure out where David is.”

Puck untangles himself, holding Kurt’s hand, and slowly they follow Burt towards the main waiting area, where the few other occupants give them a wide berth, and the receptionist gives them a sympathetic look. As they all find seats, Burt looks each of the three of them from head to toe.

“Any of you boys remember to bring your meds with you when you left the house?”

Puck nods. “I grabbed my bag. It’s got, um. Lozenges. Advil. My other meds.”

“You doing okay?” Burt asks, at the mention of Puck’s other meds.

“Yeah. Took one, Kurt thought of it.” Kurt squeezes his hand.

Burt nods. “Kurt, you don’t have a bag, so I guess all your stuff is at home? Finn? Hey, Finn, do you have any of your meds here?”

Finn looks at Burt dopily, like Burt isn’t making much sense, then he coughs some more.

“No,” Kurt admits, shaking his head. “I didn’t—”

“Of course not,” Burt says. “We’ll send somebody around to get ’em before you need your next dose, or Carole can see if she can get you some here.”

Kurt nods. “Finn’s, he probably needs his more.”

“I’ll call Leroy, see if he can go by and grab them.”

“Rachel’s auditions,” Kurt says quietly. “They flew out this morning.”

“Who of your glee kids can I call?” Burt asks. “One of them can go by.”

“ ’Tana,” Kurt says after a moment. “Just… one of us should call her.”

“I’ll do it,” Puck sighs, and he thinks maybe the Xanax is kicking in, because his body feels like it’s unwinding or something. He pulls out his phone and finds Santana in his contacts list.

“Yo, Puckerman.” Santana sounds upbeat, and Puck hates himself for a moment, for what he’s about to do.

“I need a favor, ’Tana.”

“Yeah? What’s that? Why me?”

Puck sighs. “Listen, we’re— okay, first, write this down. When you go to Finn and Kurt’s house, hop the fence and jimmy the sliding door on the deck if Carole or Finn didn’t leave it unlocked.” He glances up at Burt, who looks resigned. “On the kitchen counter there’s three bottles of Tamiflu, Robitussin, a bottle of prescription cough syrup, plus a bottle of antibiotics. Grab all of those, then go upstairs and get Kurt’s wallet off the dresser and Finn’s off his desk. You got that so far?”

“Yeah, I got it, but why the fuck am I planning a pharmacy heist?”

“I’m getting there.” Puck wipes his hand over his eyes, and Kurt squeezes his thigh gently. “My duffel bag’s on the floor, grab it, get a spare set of clothes each for Kurt and Finn. Don’t look in any drawers beside the top two in either dresser.”

“Are you planning to kidnap someone?”

“No.” Puck sighs. “Bring all that to the waiting room for the St. Rita’s emergency room.”

“What. the. actual. fuck, Puck?”

“We’re— Casey, he—” Puck exhales. “Casey tried to kill himself.”

“Puñeta!” Puck can hear something crashing in the background. “Where the fuck is Dave?”

“He’s the one that called us, Carole pulled some strings, got him back there—”

“Okay. I’m going to go steal some medicine and I’ll be there,” Santana grits out. “Dammit! He’s—?”

“He’s awake,” Puck confirms quietly. “Thanks, ’Tana.” She disconnects the call without saying goodbye, and Puck puts his phone back into his pocket.

“Everything gonna be taken care of?” Burt asks. “I can go back out if I have to.”

Puck shakes his head. “Santana can get it.”

“As long as she doesn’t stop to eviscerate anyone on the way,” Kurt appends fondly.

“Is that a possibility?”

“She _does_ live in Lima Heights Adjacent. Or so she claims.” Puck snorts. “Don’t mess with an angry Puerto Rican lesbian.”

The doors to the outside slide open, and Puck looks up as a man who must be Karofsky’s dad walks in. “Burt,” he says in greeting, then takes a look at the three of them sitting there. “Boys.”

“Paul,” Burt says, putting out his hand and clasping Paul’s in a shake that turns into one of those awkward man hugs.

“Where’s David?”

“Carole took him back to see Casey,” Burt says. “I don’t know what she told them. They didn’t want to let him back there at first.”

“They kept talking about how it needed to be a parent or guardian,” Kurt supplies. “Which is sort of worthless, unfortunately. But she did say Casey’s awake.”

“Praise God! What—” He shakes his head.

“David called me after they got here. I didn’t quite get the entire story, but Casey called him after taking some pills and whiskey both. Thankfully, David called the paramedics.”

Paul shakes his head again, closing his eyes, and sits down heavily. “I can’t— I can’t imagine.”

Puck’s not sure what Paul can’t imagine. He knows what he himself doesn’t want to imagine. He doesn’t want to imagine what Casey looked like when Karofsky found him. He also doesn’t want to imagine how Karofsky must’ve felt. Whatever he and Casey are to each other, whatever they want to say about being friends, everyone _else_ can see that there’s something else there, another connection, and Puck doesn’t even want to think about how that must’ve felt. He grips Kurt’s hand a little tighter, and Kurt’s fingers interlace with his, squeezing in response.

Carole reappears, then, walking straight over to them and squatting down in front of where Kurt, Puck, and Finn are all sitting. “David’s with him now. Casey’s reacting to the Narcan—which counteracts the pills he took—about as expected. Disoriented, agitated, some sweating and trembling. They pumped his stomach, so he’s probably in some pain from that. He had sustained previous injuries, probably between 24 and 36 hours ago, as well as a few from about 48 hours. They’re waiting until he’s stabilized to treat those.” She stands, resting a hand briefly on each of them before turning to Burt and sort of falling into his arms.

Burt holds her for a few minutes, sort of rocking her in place. When Carole straightens again, she says, “Paul. I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but.”

“Likewise.” He shakes his head. “I heard what you just said a moment ago. He was injured twice, two different times, before today?”

“That’s what the injuries indicate.”

“It’s like the boys said,” Burt shakes his head. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have children. They should be neutered like dogs.”

“Normally, I’d disagree, but in this case, I think you’re right, Burt.”

“How bad does he look?” Burt asks.

Carole looks over at them again, then, and sighs. “Not well. On the other hand, his condition is continuing to improve, and they never had to intubate him.”

“How bad are the, uh, injuries?”

“They haven’t fully assessed it, but he seems to have at least one cracked rib, some damage to one or more of his facial bones, and possibly some dental issues.”

“Fuck,” Puck can’t help muttering, and it’s probably a good thing that Finn’s so sick and that Kurt’s gripping his hand or Puck really wouldn’t be able to guarantee Mr. O’Brien would survive the night. On the other hand, Burt is healthy, so he still might not.

“I’m going to head back upstairs. I had everyone’s names added, unofficially, as authorized to receive information about his condition, since all of the boys are over eighteen. Let me know if anything changes.”

“We will, honey,” Burt says, giving her a quick kiss. “Thank you for sorting all of this out.”

“Oh!” She looks over at the three of them worriedly. “Did you grab—”

“Santana’s getting them and bringing them here,” Puck nods.

“Oh, all right, good. Cafeteria opens for dinner at 4, I know you probably don’t feel like eating, boys, but you should.” With that, Carole heads back into the hospital, and Puck sighs.

“I still don’t understand what happened,” Finn says, finally.

“Too much,” Puck responds, shaking his head. “Way too fucking much.”

“What’s gonna happen to him?” Finn really doesn’t seem to have been following the conversation, and after he speaks, he breaks into a fit of coughing.

Kurt exchanges a glance with Puck and Puck frowns. “Dad,” Kurt says slowly. “Should we…”

Burt looks over at Finn. “Santana’s bringing his stuff, right?”

Puck nods. “Yeah.”

“His mom didn’t seem to think he needed to leave or anything,” Burt says, though the look he’s giving Finn is dubious. “Maybe we should see if we can stick him in a room with a cot?”

“Maybe so,” Kurt agrees, also looking askance at Finn.

“But what’s gonna happen to him?” Finn asks again. “Are they gonna make him go back to his house?”

“God, I hope not,” Kurt shudders. “I can’t imagine that they would. Would they, Dad?”

“I don’t think so,” Burt says. “Not after the injuries Carole described.”

“I still don’t understand,” Finn frowns. “I mean, what _happened_?”

“Maybe.” Puck sighs. “Maybe he just got tired, Finn. Too many people everywhere telling him he wasn’t enough. Maybe he just gave up.”

“But what about Karofsky? And us?” Finn just can’t seem to process information in any meaningful way. “I mean, he’s got all of us.”

“None of us live at his house, or are in his classes,” Puck points out. “Look, you get told you’re a waste of space enough, sometimes you start to wonder if they aren’t right, and you’re the one that’s wrong.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell someone? I mean, why wouldn’t he call Karofsky? You _know_ he’d have gone and, I dunno, done something!”

“What, gotten thrown in jail?” Puck asks, shaking his head. “And if he thought everyone was right, why would he waste someone’s time? He wouldn’t want to waste Karofsky’s time.”

“Puckerman, maybe you and Kurt should go see about getting a cup of coffee or something,” Burt says, stepping between Puck and Finn. “I’ll talk to Finn a little bit, see if I can explain.”

“Okay, Dad,” Kurt nods, and he stands up, pulling Puck with him. “You want one?”

“Sure, yeah, here.” Burt pulls a couple of bills out of his pocket and hands them to Kurt.

“We’ll be back in just a minute,” Kurt says, and leads them out of the waiting room. Kurt starts to drop Puck’s hand when they walk into the lobby, but Puck just tightens his grip.

 

“…but _who_ do I need to go after?” Santana is asking Burt when they walk back into the waiting room. Puck’s balancing a tray of coffees and his other arm is wrapped around Kurt’s shoulders.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to send you after anybody,” Burt explains, “but I’ll keep you posted if that changes. Boys, you’re back.”

Santana spins around. “I hope one of those is for me, Puckerman.”

“Cool it, Lopez.” Puck shakes his head. “And yes, there are five of them.”

“I brought your stuff. You going to explain what went down now?”

“Casey called David around lunch. Something tipped David off that something was wrong, and he went over there.” Kurt takes a deep breath. “He swallowed some pills and washed them down with whiskey. David called the paramedics, they brought him here. He’s awake but kind of out of it, and David’s back there with him.”

Santana shakes her head, squaring her jaw. “His parents didn’t call it in or anything?”

“No,” Puck answers, voice clipped. “His dad beats him up, apparently, and his mom just… lets it happen.”

Santana looks like she’s figured out who to go after, now, and one hand is clenched into a fist. “Fuck!” She looks at the three of them. “I take it you’re staying here for the foreseeable future?”

Finn, who has been watching the exchange with a confused expression, interjects, “We can’t leave. His face is broken. We have to stay here.”

“His dad broke his _face_?” Santana snarls. “All right, bitches. Budge up, Satan’s staying too.”

 

“Okay, guys and Santana,” Burt announces. “You all need to go get something to eat.”

They all look up at Burt and frown, almost in unison. “But, we haven’t heard anything,” Kurt protests, looking up from the oh–so–fascinating game of solitaire he and Puck are playing. Puck thinks that the change of scenery doesn’t sound _bad_ , but he wants to know what’s going on a little more.

“We haven’t had any kind of update in hours. I think that ten minutes of you heading over to the cafeteria and getting some meatloaf or a sandwich isn’t going to make a huge difference,” Burt says. “You’ve all been sick and, frankly, Carole’s gonna kill me if I don’t make sure you eat. Let’s not add angry mom on top of everything else, alright?”

“Come on, blue eyes.” Puck nudges Kurt. “Your dad is right, we should eat.” He reaches behind Kurt and whacks Finn’s shoulder. “Wake up, dude.”

“Somethin’ happen?” Finn says, startling awake. “Is there news?”

“Dinnertime, Hudson,” Santana announces.

“So we don’t know anything else?” Finn sounds a lot better after the meds and the nap, which means Santana’s little heist was totally necessary. Plus they had entertainment while they didn’t cough.

“Not yet,” Kurt admits. “But Dad’s right, we should go eat.” He stands up and stretches, and Puck and Santana do as well. Finn’s a little slower to get to his feet, but then, Finn also had a dose of codeine cough syrup only a little over two hours ago. They’re heading down the hall towards the lobby when they hear a voice calling out behind them.

“Boys?”

They all turn together, Santana as well, and Puck registers that it’s the nurse from before, the tiny one— Janet? Janis?

“Thought you might like some news,” she says. “They’ve moved your friend up to a room.”

“That means he’s stable, right?” Puck asks. “Like. Treated or whatever?”

“Well, we’re going to be hanging on to him for a few days, but yes, he’s out of the woods.” She smiles, like she’s almost as relieved as they are. “He won’t be ready for any visitors for a while, though, so if you’re heading to get something to eat, that’s a good idea.”

“What floor should we go to when we’re done eating?” Kurt asks.

“Third. He’s in room 337 in the north wing, so you can head up to that waiting area if you want.”

“Thank you so much, Janis,” Kurt says. Okay, definitely Janis then. “Would you mind telling the two gentlemen in the waiting room?”

“That’s not a problem at all. I’m glad your friend is doing so much better,” Janis says, and heads back in the direction of the emergency room waiting area.

Finn fistpumps the air, saying, “Yes! Tough little guy!”

“We should grab Dave some food, too,” Santana announces as they head through the lobby.

Kurt nods. “Yes, maybe something portable for him, like a sub sandwich.”

“Yes!” Puck announces as they reach the cafeteria entrance. “Ham!”

“You are such a dork, Puckerman. How do you put up with him, Hummel?”

Kurt smiles angelically at her. “Do you really want me to answer that question?”

“No,” Finn volunteers. “No, I don’t. Santana doesn’t either.”

“But little brother, you promised the universe.”

“I think I’ve done enough today that the universe’ll give me a pass this one time.”

Kurt bites his lip and shakes his head. “Maybe so, Finn.”

“We aren’t telling people, right? I mean, like PFLAG tomorrow I guess, but.” Santana frowns, abruptly changing the subject.

“I don’t know how I’d tell people,” Finn says. “I still just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I can’t comprehend, just.” Puck shakes his head. “No, I don’t _want_ to comprehend how Karofsky felt. Feels.”

“Yeah,” Santana agrees. “I just don’t want there to be gossip, you know?”

“Nobody’s gossiping about this,” Finn says, setting his jaw. “Not happening. If it gets gossipy, I’ll just, I don’t even know. Something’s gonna happen.”

“Luckily, I don’t think ben Israel monitors the ERs in Lima,” Kurt says, distaste coloring his tone. “Santana, do you want to pick out something for David?”

Santana nods and peels off to the prepared–food cooler while they load their trays with cafeteria food. Finn stares at the food offerings dubiously.

“Is that mac n’ cheese?” he whispers to Puck. “I can’t tell. Or is it pasta salad?”

Puck studies the dish Finn’s indicating. “I don’t know, dude. I’m not sure what that green stuff next to it is, honestly. I’ll just go for double fruit salad. With my ham.”

“Ham sounds, like, too intense. I think I’ll stick with fruit salad.”

“I’m not passing up ham,” Puck asserts.

“No, we wouldn’t expect you to,” Kurt says from the other side of Puck. “There’s chocolate ice cream sandwiches, though, b— Puck.”

“Ice cream sounds good,” Finn says. “Ice cream and fruit salad. Should we get some ice cream for Karofsky, do you think?”

“It’ll just melt,” Kurt points out, handing two of the aforementioned ice cream sandwiches to Puck. Puck’s not sure if they’re both for him or one for him and one for Finn, but he decides to err on the side of awesome and puts them both on his tray. “We don’t know when he’ll be eating.”

“Maybe we could send it in with a nurse or something?” Finn suggests, grabbing two of his own ice cream sandwiches. Definitely the side of awesome. Kurt grabs himself a slice of carrot cake and a bowl of vanilla pudding, which looks either awesome or awful.

“Do they let you do that?” Puck asks as they pay and find their way to a table. “I was thinking he’d have to come out to the waiting area to eat and stuff.” Santana’s still in line, now getting her own food, and Puck pulls out his meds and lines them up. “Fucking pharmacy, for real.”

“I know,” Kurt agrees, getting out his own.

“Is it time again already?” Finn asks, setting out his meds, too. “I don’t think I need more codeine yet.”

“No, probably not,” Kurt agrees.

Santana arrives then and takes a look at the table before bursting out laughing. “Good to see my breaking and entering skills haven’t gone to waste.” She shakes her head. “Men are such pussies.”

Puck just flips her off and grins, downing his pills one by one, and Kurt shakes his head. Finn chews on his fruit salad and then makes a face, pulling out his phone.

“Practice in the morning,” he says, gesturing with his phone. “Canceling it.”

“Good call,” Puck nods. “You won’t be there, we shouldn’t really be dancing around yet, Rachel’s gone, and who the hell knows what else has gone down since Wednesday.”

Puck, Kurt, and Santana’s phones all ding to indicate a new text, and Finn looks confused for a minute. “Who texted you guys?”

“You did, doofus.” Kurt says, grinning.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot that I didn’t need to put you guys on there.”

Finn’s phone dings and he looks extra confused until he digs out his phone, when his face just gets that same stormy look it had on Sunday. He scowls at it for a moment and then shoves it back in his pocket.

Puck exchanges a look with Kurt, who frowns and shrugs. “Manhands?” Santana asks. “Did she tell you to take more magnesium or whatever again? I think she should. Milk of magnesia, that is.”

“My illness isn’t a reason for the whole club to miss out on strategery or whatever,” Finn snorts. “Whatever. Fuck her, she’s in New York City and we’re in the hospital.”

Kurt doesn’t say a word, just holds Puck’s gaze for a long minute, and Puck nods almost imperceptibly. Those two need to either actually talk, or stop communicating until they do.

“You losers almost finished?”

“Yeah,” Puck says, rolling his eyes, because it’s what Santana expects. “You?”

“Totally.” She pushes her chair back and grabs their trays, stacking all the trash on the top one. “Let’s go find this new waiting area.”

Luckily, the new waiting area is easy to find and also close to Casey’s room, so they wait until none of the nurses are walking in the hall for Santana to walk down to sneak Karofsky his sandwich. Of course, the candystriper apron she stole from behind the desk first probably helps, but she gets there and back without any trouble. Then again, Santana might actually _be_ a candystriper, which is a really frightening thought.

“Good news or bad news first?” Santana says, collapsing into a chair.

“Bad,” Puck answers her.

“Okay. The bad news is, his dad did beat him, pretty bad. So it’s not just internal stuff, he’s got some issues with bruising, cracked bones, and his dad knocked a tooth out or almost knocked a tooth out or something.”

“What’s the good news, then?” Puck looks at her expectantly.

“The good news is that he got here quickly, they knew what he took, and they were able to either pump it out of him or counteract the effects. Also, the injuries will heal, so physically, he’s going to be fine.”

“Just not so much mentally,” Kurt says quietly.

“Yeah, well.” Santana sits down, scowling her agreement.

“How’s Karofsky?” Finn asks.

A dark look passes over Santana’s face, and she rolls her eyes at Finn before opening her mouth, then shutting it. She sighs. “Small.”

Puck sighs, too, and he and Kurt sort of slump against each other. Finn looks lost and confused, though he seems to understand what Santana means, at least, as he doesn’t ask anything else. Puck’s brain starts going off in circles, and he figures that answers that question: the Xanax has definitely worn off. He tightens his grip on Kurt’s hand and tries to shift his focus.

“Does he need anything? I mean, I guess his dad’s going to bring him stuff, but.”

“Are they gonna let him stay overnight with Casey?” Finn asks.

“I think so, yeah. Your mom bulldozed over some rules or something. Not sure that it’d matter if they _let_ him, though.” She half–snorts, half–laughs. “And there’s probably not many employees or even cops in this town that could physically move him, so.”

“Psychiatrist?” Puck finally asks, almost blurting it out, because fuck, sure, Janis downstairs said it would be someone from Dayton, but what if they don’t wait for that? “When does he see a psychiatrist, and are they really bringing someone from Dayton? Because.” Puck stops and shakes his head. “The psychiatrist from Lima is shit.”

“Dave said there’s a Dr. Naser coming in the morning from out of town. Something about adolescent psychiatry, but honestly, Dave wasn’t really sure.” Santana gives Puck an appraising look. “The Lima psychiatrists are shit, huh?”

“Yeah, they are,” Finn says, like he’s got some reason to be involved in this conversation. “Burt and my mom were talking about it a couple weeks ago, some lady they have working here. She does, like, _gay brainwashing_ or something!”

“Uh, more like anti–gay brainwashing, actually,” Puck points out, “but yeah. What Finn said.”

“Idiots,” Santana pronounces. “But no, they’re importing.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway.” Puck gnaws his lip, which he can’t figure out why he’s doing that, either, and hopes that this doctor from Dayton is good, and maybe he should warn Karofsky to look out for… well, idiocy and whatever.

“You okay?” Kurt whispers, putting his other hand on Puck’s forearm.

Puck blinks at him, considering the question. “Dunno,” he finally decides.

“Karofsky won’t let anybody gay brainwash Casey,” Finn says to Santana, with great certainty. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he’d punch them in the neck or throw them out the door if they tried.”

Kurt squeezes Puck’s hand again and then starts to stand up. “I think I’m going to find the restroom and maybe a vending machine. Puck, you want to help me pick out candy for everyone?”

“Uh, sure.” Puck stands up and follows Kurt, not sure what they’re really doing, and leaving Finn and Santana to a disturbingly detailed conversation about all the things Karofksy would do to anyone who _did_ try to brainwash Casey. “What are we really doing?” Puck asks quietly as soon as they’re a few steps down the hall.

“I thought a walk might do us good.” Kurt sighs. “And I think you need to take another pill, and I really do want to see if the vending machine has anything decent.”

Puck laughs. “Yeah, okay. Vending machines are usually either awesome or totally a waste of space.”

“Yes, well. In my experience, the ones here are sporadic, since they don’t get restocked as often as they should.” Kurt stops at the water fountain and leans against the wall, waiting on Puck to dig the correct bottle out and spill one pill into his hand. “I suppose we should leave at some point tonight, but I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk to David at least.”

“Yeah, it feels kinda wrong to just do other stuff, even though there’s nothing we can really do here.”

“Yes.”

The vending machine is well–stocked, which Kurt assures him means it won’t be by Wednesday morning, or possibly even sooner. When they near the seating area, Karofsky’s standing just outside Casey’s room, talking quietly to Finn and Santana.

“Hey, guys,” Karofsky greets them with a nod. “Thanks for sticking around.”

“How’s Casey feeling now?” Kurt asks.

“Eh. I think he’s still a little out of it, but physically he’s doing better. He doesn’t.” Karofsky stops. “His dad found out.”

“Fuck.” Puck hits the wall half-heartedly.

“Shit.” Finn kicks the wall at the same time Puck hits it.

“So, yeah.” Dave shakes his head. “His dad basically told him that he’d rather have no son than a gay son.”

“Fucker.” Both Kurt and Santana hiss the word at the same time. “What do you need us to do, David?” Kurt continues.

“Um. I think my dad’s bringing me some stuff?” He scratches his head. “Oh! Lip balm.”

“Lip balm?” Finn quirks his head to the side.

“They’re only letting him have ice chips for now, so, yeah, I dunno.” Dave shrugs. “Seemed like maybe lip balm would be good.”

“I’ll find some,” Kurt says with a nod. “We could come by tomorrow before school, bring you some breakfast?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks, guys.” There’s a tiny cough from inside the room, and Dave straightens. “I, uh, I’m gonna go back in there. If you guys want to head home for the night, I mean. Thanks. Really. Um, tell your mom thanks, would you?”

“Yeah, man, sure,” Finn nods. “No problem. I’ll, uh. I’ll text you tomorrow and you can let me know what you decided, ok?”

“Yeah, okay.” Dave nods. “Night. Thanks.” With that, he disappears back into Casey’s room, the door swinging softly shut behind him, and the rest of them turn to look at each other.

“Decided?” Kurt asks.

“PFLAG tomorrow,” Finn says. “Karofsky might come. He’s not sure yet. I’ll pick him up on my way if he decides he wants to.”

“I guess we should go home,” Kurt says, nodding to himself. “Finn, do you mind if we stop on the way home to get that lip balm?”

“Nah, that’s cool. Do you think one of you might be up for driving, though?”

“Yeah, but I need my keys back, dude,” Puck answers, holding his hand out expectantly. Finn fishes in his pocket and pulls out Puck’s keychain.

“Here ya go, dude.”

“ _Your_ keys?” Santana interjects as Puck takes them from Finn. “Really?”

“Uh, seriously?” Finn asks, looking at Santana like she’s crazy or stupid. “I mean, of course he’s got a key.”

“I knew you let Puck drive your baby, but his own keys?” Santana turns her attention to Kurt, who just shakes his head, faint smile on his face.

“Everyone asks me that,” he replies, not really addressing the question. “All right. Let’s head home.”

 

When Puck wakes up the next morning, the house is full of the smell of breakfast. Bacon and pancakes and probably some eggs and cinnamon rolls, if Puck’s right, and he and Kurt roll out of bed.

“I can’t.” Kurt stops and shakes his head. “Is that a valid sentence?”

“Seems like it should be,” Puck agrees, stuffing his backpack full of medicine bottles and pulling on the only pair of pants he has at Kurt’s that aren’t sweatpants or pajama pants. They’re his black work pants, unfortunately, but at least he has a clean T-shirt still, and Carole washed one of his hoodies. Kurt, for his part, is scowling at his wardrobe.

“I can’t decide whether or not to dress down, thereby giving Artie cause for more backhanded compliments, or to dress to the nines, regretting it by third period.”

“Naked isn’t an option?” Puck leers.

“No,” Burt answers from the hallway, before he continues walking towards the stairs.

“Well, damn,” Puck sighs, shaking his head. “In that case, dress to the nines.”

“All right,” Kurt answers, selecting the suit he wore back in November, when they went down to Troy for the night. He picks out a purple shirt, though, and a skinny black tie, with grey loafers, and then finally reaches for a grey fedora.

“Very nice,” Puck says appreciatively, tugging on his boots. “Need a little help with that tie?”

“If you insist.” Kurt’s lips quirk upwards, and he steps between Puck’s legs. “You think you could help with that?”

“I’d like to, definitely.” Puck carefully ties it, then tugs Kurt close and kisses him softly. “Ready, blue eyes?”

Kurt takes a deep breath. “I think so.”

Carole has in fact made a huge breakfast, and Finn is already at the table, consuming mass quantities of breakfast food. Puck and Kurt don’t linger long, finishing their meal and thanking Carole before heading out the door towards the hospital.

“I meant to mention to Karofsky what to watch out for. With the psychiatrist from Dayton, I mean.”

“Not a bad plan,” Kurt muses, pulling into the parking garage. “I mean, you’d think they’d know better, but most of us don’t walk around with ‘gay’ on our files, like some kind of medic alert bracelet.”

Puck snorts at the image. “Yeah, not so much.” The hospital is nearly deserted as they carry the lip balm and the bag from McDonald’s up to the third floor. One of the nurses nods at them in passing and they knock lightly before pushing the door open.

Casey looks even smaller than Puck can ever remember seeing him, and Karofsky is lying on the bed next to him, not touching him, but curled around him like an oversized sheepdog around a lost lamb.

“Should we wake him up?” Puck whispers.

Kurt shakes his head and they walk farther into the room. “We’ll just leave this here,” he murmurs, setting the lip balm bag on the table. The lip balm expanded into three kinds of lip balm, some chewing gum, an iTunes card, and several varieties of candy, so the bag is fairly full. Puck follows, setting the McDonald’s food next to it, and then looks over at the bed again. The only point of contact between the two is Karofsky’s left hand engulfing Casey’s right, resting on Casey’s stomach. It’s either the sweetest thing Puck’s ever seen, or the saddest, and he feels like they’re intruding, so he wraps his own hand around Kurt’s and tugs them back out the door and to the elevator.

 

Puck sighs and tightens his hand around his cup of coffee as he stalks through the halls. They ended up being early, since they didn’t stay at the hospital for really any length of time, but he wants to use the time to get to history early, to avoid any questions. He’s not even sure who would be asking questions, but he wants to avoid them, anyway.

Sam arrives a few minutes later, grinning when he spots Puck. “Hey, man. Feeling better?”

“Yeah, still taking a bunch of medicine, but better,” Puck answers, forcing himself to answer normally. He knows that they still sneezed and coughed their way through the day while they sat at the hospital, but he can’t really remember it.

“Awesome.”

Brittany comes into the classroom and stands in front of Puck’s desk, her eyes and nose red.

“ ’Tana told you?” Puck asks softly, already starting to stand up.

She nods, and when Puck opens his arms, she falls into them, burying her face against his chest. “She says Dave is with him, though, so that means he’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah, Britt. He’s going to be okay,” Puck assures her. “He’s going to be there for a few more days, though, and then…” He sighs. “But he’s going to be okay.”

“Dave will take care of him and feed him Jell-O.”

“Okay.” Puck has no idea what Jell-O has to do with anything, really, even though there’s a niggling in the back of his mind, like he’s forgotten something he did know. “Yeah, Dave will.”

“Is everything okay?” Sam breaks in. “Britt?”

“I’m fine. I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Brittany says, sliding into Finn’s empty seat.

“Okay.” Sam gives her a strange look but doesn’t say anything else, since Mrs. Vey walks in and starts lecturing.

 

Kurt walks down the hall almost aimlessly, wearing his clothes like armor. He doesn’t want to go to math early; Santana will be there. He doesn’t know where to go, so he heads to the darkened choir room. He stares at the bulletin board, taking in the well–wishes for Rachel, the get–well wishes for him and Finn and Puck all, and his eyes fixate on the scribbled “thank you” from November in Casey’s handwriting.

Kurt sinks down to the ground, the weight of everything pressing on him. Puck’s anxiety. Finn’s trouble with Rachel. The flu. Auditions. Casey. Pretzel. He feels the cold of the floor against his legs and his cheeks feel wet. He can’t, _can’t_ let any of them know. He can’t talk to anyone, not his dad, not Carole, not Finn, not Puck. There’s no one, no one to talk to, because as hard as it is for him, it’s so much _more_ for the rest of them.

He hears the door open and close, someone else entering the room quietly. He wonders why they’re in the choir room, and curls up into a ball, silencing his crying as much as he can.

“Kurt?” Mike’s voice is tentative. “Hey, are you okay?”

Kurt exhales, a long, shuddering breath. “It’s just so much,” he mumbles, not looking up. “I can’t, I have to.”

“Did something happen? Do you need me to go get someone?” There’s a soft thump of Mike’s backpack hitting the ground, and Mike takes a knee next to Kurt.

“What hasn’t happened?” Kurt asks, laughing bitterly. “There’s no one to get. I’m the one they call.”

Mike pats him gently on the back, sitting on the ground next to him without saying anything.

After a few moments of silence, Kurt starts talking again. “It’s just, there’s Toledo this afternoon, and there’s _Pretzel_ , and the flu, and Finn has that patch on his lung, and oh _god_ Casey, and I just. I have to be strong. I can’t. I can’t let them know.”

“Finn’s lung? And what happened to Casey?”

“Secondary infection,” Kurt sniffles. “And, oh god, Mike, it’s _bad_ , just bad, and I don’t know how to do this. I do it all the time, I pretend, every fucking day, and I just don’t know how to pretend today.”

“Well, maybe you can just stay in here for a while, since I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about and you don’t have to pretend about anything right now,” Mike suggests.

Kurt nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay. Okay.” He hears the bell ring in the distance. “Okay,” he repeats again. “You should go to class.”

“It’s okay. It’s just AP Chinese, so I think I’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” Kurt nods. “Yeah, I think so.” He wants to smile, but he can’t. “Just tell me when it’s five til nine.”

 

Puck and Kurt retreat to the parking lot during the beginning of fourth period, holing up in the back seat of the Navigator until it’s only a few minutes before the start of PFLAG. It takes everything Puck has not to wrap his fingers in Kurt’s as they walk towards the classroom, and Ms. Pillsbury smiles brightly at them when they enter the room.

“Hello Noah, Kurt,” Ms. P chirps at them. “How are you boys today?”

They turn to look at her, eyebrows raised, and Puck can see Kurt stiffen. “No one told you.” It’s a statement, not a question. “No one told the school at all.”

“No one told us what?”

Kurt closes his eyes and seems to sag for a moment, and maybe it’s that motion that breaks Puck’s resolve, because he thinks “Fuck it,” and pulls Kurt towards him. “Casey O’Brien tried to kill himself yesterday,” Puck answers Ms. Pillsbury, not looking up.

“Casey O’Brien?” Ms. P repeats. “Little Casey from PFLAG?”

Puck nods, tightening his arms around Kurt, and he doesn’t know how they’re going to go through telling everyone else. This is bad enough.

“Well. Huh.” Lauren’s voice come from behind them. “Thought so.”

Puck just shakes his head a little as Kurt pulls away. “Hello, Lauren,” Kurt says, his mask sliding firmly back into place.

“Ohhkay,” she says, slowly. “Something’s obviously not right.”

“No,” Puck agrees, sitting down, Kurt following suit beside him. “Just— wait.”

For once, Lauren doesn’t argue or say anything snide. She looks at them for a minute and then nods, walking over and taking a seat. Watching people enter the room is almost disturbing; laughing and chattering starts to fade as each new person or cluster of people enters and takes in the somber mood of the room. Santana and Brittany walk straight over to Kurt, holding hands, and Brittany rests her head on Kurt’s shoulder.

Rick and Brown enter, joking around, and Rick looks around the room, then gets a confused sort of look on his face, which isn’t all that uncommon. Brown keeps telling whatever story he’s in the middle of, but then Rick elbows him a little and shakes his head. Brown falls silent and looks around, too, then frowns. “Hey.”

“No idea, man.”

“Let’s get started,” Kurt says firmly but quietly.

“Where’s Finn?” Artie asks. “Is he still sick?”

“Patch on his lung,” Mike nods.

“Forget that, where’s Karofsky? And Casey?” Brown demands.

As if on cue, Finn and Karofsky walk through the doorway. Karofsky looks haggard, for lack of a better term. His face looks like it’s almost permanently sad, like he hasn’t laughed in months. Finn hovers almost protectively around Karofsky, glaring as he walks in, like he’s Karofsky’s bodyguard or something.

“What’s going on?” Brown asks. “Dave, man, what’s happened?”

Finn directs his glare towards Brown, and Brown falls silent as Finn and Karofsky sit down. Instead of sitting by Puck or Kurt like he normally does, Finn sits next to Karofsky, on the side opposite where Casey usually would sit. Puck feels as if the empty chair is staring at them.

A minute passes without any other sound in the room. There are over thirty people in the room, staring between the six of them that must, Puck knows, appear to be severely depressed. Puck feels bile rising in his throat and gets up, grabbing a can of pop from the food table, passing a second one to Kurt. Finn glances over at Kurt, then looks at Puck, like he’s looking for the go–ahead. Puck lifts one shoulder and then tilts his head forward.

“So,” Finn says, and thirty heads swivel towards him. “So. Yeah, first of all, old rules still apply. What we talk about it here, it doesn’t leave here, and if you think I’m not serious about that. Well, you need to know I’m serious about that, and if you don’t, you get up out of your seat, and you walk out of here. Now.”

No one gets up. It’s almost like no one breathes, the room is so silent. Puck looks over to the teachers, Ms. Pillsbury’s face half–covered with a tissue, and Schue and Coach Beiste, or whatever she is now, looking as confused as most of the room.

“Statistics,” Kurt says, in that strange monotone from the day before.

“So… so, gay kids, LGBTQ kids, they have, like… well, it’s really hard for them, you know?” Finn begins. “It’s hard for kids anyway, but those kids, they have a suicide attempt rate that’s, well it’s like three or four times what straight kids have. It’s something like one out of three, almost. One out of three kids.”

There’s another hushed silence, except for the sound of Brittany quietly crying.

“There’s, I dunno, a lot of reasons. It sucks out there. Sometimes it sucks in here, too. People just, they _suck_ , and the world isn’t a good place for everybody. Somebody tells you enough times that who you are is bad or wrong, and maybe you turn into that one out of three kids, right?” Finn shifts in his seat, coughs a little into his sleeve. “So… well, so Casey.” Finn’s voice breaks a little, and he takes a deep breath. “Casey’s our one out of three.”

“Oh, God.” There’s almost a collective exclamation, and Puck isn’t sure who’s talking and who’s struck dumb. There’s the sound of more crying now, not just Brittany.

“Is he?” someone asks, maybe Mike, but Puck can’t be sure.

“I think it’s utter shit to say that he’s lucky,” Finn says, “but, I mean, I guess this is the one place where he is. He’s really lucky that he’s got a friend like Dave here, who got to him in time. He’s at the hospital now and he’s gonna make it ok.”

“Oh, thank God!” echoes from a few corners, along with Mercedes’ louder exclamation of “Praise Jesus!” and a few quiet, simple exhalations of “oh.”

“Fuck, man, why didn’t you call us?” Rick says, speaking to Karofsky.

Brown elbows him. “He probably went on auto-pilot, Foots!”

“Oh, shit, yeah, you’re right. Sorry, man, sorry, you’re right. That wasn’t cool.”

“Is it really one in three?” Tina asks softly, and Puck realizes she’s one of the ones crying quietly, Mike’s arm around her shoulders.

“Yeah,” Finn says. “I looked it up last night, ’cause Kurt said something about it, and it is, it’s like, thirty–something percent who attempt it.”

“That’s like.” Mike stops mid–sentence, looking around the room, and Puck realizes suddenly where’s Mike train of thought has gone. There’s more than three of them in the room. “Too many,” Mike finally finishes, voice dropping. “Way too many.”

“Yeah,” Finn agrees. “And it’s not like they just wake up one day with this idea, either. People _do_ this to them. Every day. I want all of you to know this. This isn’t something randomly going wrong with Casey, this is something people _did_ to him. They did this to that kid, that little kid, who comes in here every time just smiling at everybody.”

“Is there really anyone in this room who can honestly say that they haven’t been a bully at some point? Verbally, physically, online? I don’t think any of us are innocent.” Kurt’s face is impassive, his tone almost clipped. “How many of you just walk by?”

“I’m guilty,” Finn says, raising his hand. “I don’t even know how many times I’ve said or done something that could have been some kid’s last straw, not even thinking about it, just, hey that wasn’t a big deal, it was one little thing.”

Rick raises his hand slowly. “I’m guilty, too. I mean, you guys know why I was here to begin with. I could have been somebody’s one little thing. It could’ve been me who did that.”

“I’ve walked by,” Mike responds, carefully choosing his words as his hand creeps up, Tina’s mirroring the action. “It’s so much easier not to say anything. Don’t participate, but don’t defend anyone either. I could have been someone’s hope, walking away.”

Slowly, more and more hands creep up. Santana’s, Sam’s, Puck’s own, all the underclassmen. Even Artie looks around the room and then raises his hand. Within minutes, the only hands still unraised are Mercedes and Schue’s. Coach elbows Schue until he raises his hand, and Kurt just looks at Mercedes for a second before her own hand goes up.

“So what do we do?” Sam asks, looking a little bewildered.

“ _Something_ ,” Finn says. “ ’Cause doing nothing isn’t working so good.”

“What kind of something? We can’t do anything about away from here, can we?” Mike frowns.

“Away from here is one of those things we’re supposed to leave to the adults,” Puck points out, snorting. “Cause that always works out so well.”

“We could watch each other’s backs,” Rick suggests. “Here and away from here?”

“Can’t be everywhere,” Karofsky grunts, not looking up. “Can’t fix some things.”

Taylor speaks up, safe in the cluster of freshmen. “What do you mean?”

Karofsky looks across the circle briefly, not really making eye contact with Puck or Kurt, and then turns his head slightly to Finn. He grunts and doesn’t answer.

“You can’t be in people’s houses or watch them all the time to make sure everything is ok,” Finn says. “I mean, I guess LGBTQ kids can have a lot of problems at home, like, um. Like abuse and stuff.”

There’s a collective silence, like most of the room is processing what Finn’s saying and why Karofsky might have brought it up. Puck frowns and crosses his arms. He’s pretty sure that he should have taken a pill before the meeting or maybe dig around for them now, but he doesn’t want to have all the stares on him and anyway, maybe he can manage.

“That is _messed. Up._ ” Brown pronounces. “That just…” He shakes his head. “Yeah, okay, what Evans said. What can we do, here at school?”

“What really happens when you bully someone? Here, I mean, at McKinley?” Taylor asks, looking interested.

“Unless there’s witnesses or proof or something?” Finn says. “Not much.”

Rick shifts in his chair and clears his throat. “There were these two guys I used to roll with, back when I was stupid.” There’s a few isolated laughs. “And we did some pretty dumb, uh, _stuff_. One time, we were all standing around being stupid and the two of them, they got into it real bad with another dude. Beat on him pretty good, I mean, two on one, right? I told them to stop, but it’s not like I did anything to stop ’em, you know? I just let it happen.” Rick is pointedly _not_ looking at Puck, not looking anywhere near Puck in fact.

“Anyway,” Rick continues. “The other two guys got kicked off the team, but that was all Coach, and a couple of days suspension. I had to sit out a few games and, well, come to these meetings. It worked out pretty good for me, ’cause now I’m not so stupid, but I don’t think either of those guys learned anything. I still seem ’em harassing kids in the hall.”

“They didn’t.” Kurt raises one eyebrow. “I can assure you of that.”

“Why don’t you say something?” Mercedes asks. “I mean, if they’re harassing you, you should be able to get them punished, right? Don’t we have any kind of anti-bullying policy in effect?”

“While there is a statute that prohibits bullying in the schools, no specific groups are protected by the statute. We also know, of course, that enforcement varies with regards to policies that _should_ be enforced actually _being enforced_ ,” Kurt answers.

“Plus, there’s the whole no homo promo thing,” Puck interjects. “A lot of school districts—and ours is one of them—have policies in place that teachers can’t bring up homosexuality or related issues. At all. We’re probably lucky no one’s complaining about us yet, really. Or they’re all scared of Burt Hummel.” He grins at Kurt for a split second. “If issues come up, teachers can’t directly talk about them. Or, for that matter, if teachers bring it up negatively, students don’t really have any recourse.” He looks over at Schue as he says the last sentence, trying to focus on the stricken look on Schue’s face instead of the roiling in his stomach and the rising tide of thoughts circling in his brain.

“We tried to take care of stuff ourselves,” Finn says, casting a cautious glance in the direction of the teachers. “It didn’t work. I mean, look at where we’re at now. It’s not any better than it was before. It’s worse, for some people. Trying it that way, it just made everything worse.”

“Wait, I’m still stuck back on the no promo thing,” Sam says. “Is that— that doesn’t seem right.”

“What’s that even mean?” Rick asks.

“No homo promo is a colloquialism,” Kurt responds, shooting Puck an amused look. “But the policy is very real. It’s been instituted on a local level, not a state level.”

“That’s just weird,” Rick shakes his head.

“It’s not right,” Santana bites out, speaking up for the first time since the meeting started. “It’s a bunch of bullshit. We’re here. We _exist_. They’re trying to erase us.”

“Like in that movie,” Brittany says, mournfully. “Where everybody disappears out of the pictures and his guitar stops working right.”

Puck swallows, trying to ignore the bile literally rising in the back of his throat. Santana’s right; they’re trying to erase them. They want to pretend like no one is queer, and inadvertently, Puck’s helping them. He shifts in his chair and can feel Kurt move beside him, movement almost completely aborted, but not quite.

“Why can’t we change it?” Taylor speaks up, and his voice gets a little high on the last word.

“What do you mean?” Kurt asks.

“Someone had to put the policy in there? Right? So, um. Maybe we can take it out.”

“Can we, like, write the school board or something?” Finn wants to know. “Or go down there, to a meeting or something? Oh! We can bring signs.”

“I think it’s gonna take more than just a few letters, dude.” Puck shrugs. “I dunno, how does the school board work?”

“Well, you could speak before the school board at one of the public meetings,” Ms. P suggests. “You’ll have to write up a proposal and submit it ahead of time, though, and you won’t get very long to talk, if they even accept it.”

“Why wouldn’t they accept it?” Tina asks. “Isn’t bullying like, a national issue these days?”

“And that might be exactly why they wouldn’t. They might not want to bring any public attention to the school system by allowing such a hot–button issue,” Ms. Pillsbury explains, sounding apologetic.

“That’s _crap_!” Finn snaps.

“I think you can include a group affiliation on the form,” Coach Beiste adds. “So you might want to decide if you’re going to be upfront. You could choose a name that doesn’t give away your position.”

“No,” Puck shakes his head. “Isn’t that the problem, like Santana said? They just want to erase—” Puck cuts himself abruptly and coughs. He doesn’t really need to cough, but he’s been coughing and sneezing all day, so why not use it to his advantage now?

“Yep. Let ’em try to sweep all of us under a rug.” Santana nods.

“We need someone to spearhead this.” Kurt looks almost weary, like the thought of taking on anything else just makes him want to sleep for days. “Is anyone interested in that?”

“I think I’d like to,” Tina says after a few moments of silence. “If that’s all right. I just, it’s something I can _do_.”

Kurt nods. “Would anyone like to help Tina? Maybe one or two people?”

“I would.” Taylor speaks up, his voice more sure this time. “If, I mean. I’m only a freshman.”

“I’ll help,” Brittany says. “I can help you make posters or make other people come and clap for us.”

“Great!” Tina smiles widely both at Taylor and then Brittany. “We’ll keep the rest of you posted on what needs to happen next, okay?”

“Thanks, Tina,” Kurt nods.

“Do you think this is really a good idea, though?” Artie asks. “Maybe we should start by talking to our parents, seeing if they might take it to the board instead.”

“Or try talking to the administration here at the school,” Schue says, and maybe it wouldn’t sound so bad if it weren’t for the patronizing tone he’s using, probably without even realizing it. “I’m sure a suggestion like this would have more weight coming from professionals.”

Professionals. Yeah, professional douchebags, professionals like Schue himself and how he looks at Kurt and Santana and even Brittany, professionals like that fucking Dr. Nichols, and Puck can feel his vision greying out, like Schue was just the last straw that his brain could take. He leans his head back carefully, really slowly, because maybe if he just sits there like nothing is wrong, no one will notice.

That would be too easy, though, and anyway, it sort of ignores the fact that Kurt’s sitting beside him, and Kurt probably realized something was wrong before Puck did. So Puck’s not really surprised when he finds himself walking out the door, Kurt’s hand firm on his shoulder until they’re just outside the room, door still cracked, and Kurt rummages through Puck’s backpack before handing him a bottle of water—and where did that come from?—and a pill bottle.

“Wait, where are Puck and Kurt going?” they can hear Artie ask from inside the classroom.

“Guys,” Finn answers, “we spent most of yesterday at the hospital, okay? Just… maybe don’t ask us any stupid questions right now.”

Puck fumbles with the bottle and swallows one of the pills, leaning against the wall while he drinks the water. He tries not to focus on anything, because his vision is still a little funny and he still feels just fucking weird. Kurt’s standing close to him, careful not to be too close, but his hand is pressing firmly against Puck’s back, and Puck closes his eyes, letting it ground him a little.

“I think Ms. Pillsbury would understand if you needed the afternoon off,” Kurt says, but his tone implies that he’s already decided Ms. P will understand, one way or another. “So we’ll go eat some of the soup and stuff Carole left, and rest a little before Toledo.”

“Yeah.” Puck nods and reopens his eyes, listening to see if they’re mentioned again inside the classroom.

“Anyway,” they can hear Finn continuing from inside the classroom, “Tina’ll find out when the next meeting is and let us know if we need to get butts in seats or something. If she needs that, everybody’d better show up.”

“Email me if you’re willing to be one of the people actually speaking,” Tina adds. “It’s easy to remember: concertina9 at gmail.”

“Yeah, and now, uh, the meeting’s over,” Finn announces. “Go away so I can go home and take some more of my magic cough medicine.”

There’s a little bit of laughter, but before anyone can leave the room—or maybe even stand up—Kurt starts them moving down the hall, heading for the parking lot. Puck thinks that maybe it was a dumb idea to even try to come to school beyond PFLAG, but he’s learned his lesson.

 

“M’sorry,” Puck finally manages to mumble as they head up 75.

“For what?” Puck can tell without looking that Kurt’s raising his eyebrows, puzzled.

“Everything.” Puck sighs. “ ’Tana’s right, they just want to erase us, and here I am, making their job easier.”

“Does it?” Kurt asks mildly. “I think they’d just succeed anyway, truly.”

“Maybe,” Puck has to concede. “I just. _I_ feel like some kind of, I dunno. Hypocrite, maybe. Like I should just say ‘to hell with it’ and be out. But then I remember what they did to Santana and Brittany, and yeah, what Fordham and Johannson did when they didn’t know about me, and.” Puck shakes his head. “So, fuck, being hypocritical, it feels like it keeps us _safe_.”

“There’s no right answer.” Kurt sounds tired, so tired, and Puck feels guilty, guilty that he’s doing this to Kurt, that they’re having to drive to Toledo, that he can’t fix anything for them.

“What would you do? If it were up to you?”

“I don’t know,” and Puck can tell that’s honestly Kurt’s answer. “I understand what you’re saying perfectly. On both sides. Momentum favors the status quo. Right? But.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, baby. There’s not just no right answer. Maybe there’s just no answer at all.” Kurt reaches across the console, twining his fingers with Puck’s and squeezing them tight. “The only thing I know is…” Kurt exhales, and it’s a little shaky.

“Yeah.” Puck squeezes back. “I know. I know, K.”

There’s not really much else to say, their hands still clutching each other until they’re almost to the parking garage. “I asked Dad if he wanted me to grab anything at Fresh Market, since I was going to be up here anyway. So I’m going to go do that and then I’ll be back. All right?”

Puck nods. “Yeah, okay.” He shakes his head and climbs out. “Hell of a week.”

“Yes.” Kurt sighs again. “Be good.”

“I’m always good.” Puck grins just slightly as he turns to walk towards Dr. Venko’s office. It’s a different receptionist this week, which is maybe good, because of the whole Quinn–haircut thing. He has to wait even less time this week, which is kind of nice, before he gets escorted back into the office.

“Puck, nice to see you again,” Dr. V says, pointing to a seat. “How’s the past week been treating you?”

Puck sits down and purses his lips. “It’s really just been a week?” He half–chuckles, shaking his head. “Last week was pretty normal for a day. My mom forgot about Parent/Teacher Night and I ended up watching Hannah at work. Not that I’ve done that before, but Mom pretty much always forgets about things like that. But I was really cold and then on Thursday we figured out that Kurt and Finn and I all had the flu, so I’ve been at their house since then. And then yesterday.” Puck shakes his head. “A friend of ours, from PFLAG, he um. Tried to kill himself. So, yeah.”

“That’s a hell of a week,” Dr. Venko says. “How are you holding up under all of that?”

“Uh, three Xanax since noon yesterday, and I nearly lost it during PFLAG earlier.”

“Well, I wrote you the prescription for the Xanax for a reason, and though I’m sorry it’s turned out to be necessary so quickly, I certainly can see why you’d need it. Tell me about what happened at PFLAG, if you want.”

“Just. Santana made a comment about how they’re trying to erase us, and that was bad enough, and then Schue started talking, and everything started greying out, but hey, I didn’t puke, which is… surprising, actually.”

“That’s good to hear, at least. What was the context of the comment, and was there anything specific you did when you started ‘greying out’ as you put it?”

“Um.” Puck tries to think. “I don’t know. I just felt like my brain was going in circles. I mean, I should have known before the meeting, right? But. And it was just more about letting the adults handle stuff. Because that’s worked so well so far.”

“I can understand why you’d feel that way. Were you able to calm yourself down in the meeting?”

“Not really. I was trying to just, I don’t know. Lie my head back or something, and that might’ve worked, but Kurt noticed and pushed me out. And produced a water bottle out of nowhere.” Puck probably shouldn’t fixate on that, but he does sort of wonder how Kurt manages that shit.

“A man of many talents.”

“Yeah.” Puck grins briefly. “And Finn was just like, don’t ask us questions, we’ve been sick and at the hospital, so shut up. So. Yeah.”

“Your friend, how’s he doing?”

“Physically he’s going to be fine. He, uh, took some narcotics and then drank some whiskey, but he called Karofsky or something, and they got him to the hospital and everything. So. Yeah, that’s good.”

“That is good. I’m glad to hear it.” Dr. V leans back in his chair a little. “You, Kurt, and Finn were over at the hospital yesterday, then?”

“Karofsky called Kurt, and we went over there. Um, apparently we were quite a sight, Karofsky told Finn that the ER nurse referred to us a ‘flock of young gay men with coughs’, even though Finn’s straight and Santana was there after awhile. And she’s not a guy. But, yeah, we were there for awhile. We never did see Casey, but Karofsky was in with him and stuff.”

“That had to be hard, seeing your friends struggling with that.”

Puck exhales. “Yeah. It was… yeah. And it’s just kinda wrong, you know? We were there, and Kurt’s dad, and Karofsky’s dad, but Casey’s dad was in jail by then and his mom is just checked out or something, so.” He shrugs.

“It must be hard for Casey, trying to deal with all of that, being gay in Lima, having parents who don’t or can’t meet his needs,” Dr. V says. “Maybe dealing with an adult level of responsibility at his age.”

“Yeah. I can sort of get it. Like, I always figured the idea was to prove them all wrong, but like, Finn? He just couldn’t get it at all. Because his life’s been pretty awesome. He had Carole and yeah, his dad was gone, but it wasn’t like his dad wanted to leave. And now he has Burt, so.” Puck shakes his head. “He just doesn’t get it. And I guess I can understand why.”

Dr. Venko nods. “I imagine the gulf there is pretty wide. That’s a pretty hard thing to have to try to explain to someone.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we did that great of a job, because Burt was all ‘you two go get coffee now’, but.” Puck shrugs. “I just didn’t want Finn like, judging Casey or something.”

“Do you think Finn was judging Casey for trying to kill himself?”

“Nah, just that there was, I don’t know, the potential? Like some people are just going to understand it a little better than others. It’s not really anyone’s fault. Just life.”

“But you can understand it, Casey’s situation?”

“Not exactly. Like I said, I always figured the best answer was to prove them all wrong. I guess I figured suicide meant _they_ won, whoever _they_ are. Kurt and I talked about it, before now. It’s like, there’s two choices. I don’t understand Casey’s choice, ’cause I’d always pick the other one, but I can understand how he got to the moment of making a choice.” Puck pauses for a moment, sort of impressed with himself and how he managed to get the idea across.

“That makes sense,” Dr. V says. “I think, given the circumstances, having taken a few Xanax over the last twenty four hours sounds like a perfectly reasonable choice. Are you and Kurt fairly well recovered from the flu, even with this going on?”

“Yeah, we got Tamiflu and all that. Finn got a secondary infection, some kind of patch on his lung?” Puck shrugs, because he wasn’t really sure what that meant. “Probably should have stayed home from school again today, but we didn’t really think about it. Tomorrow’ll be fine, though, I think.”

“So how has this week been, living at Kurt’s house? Has it been pretty comfortable?”

“Well, yeah.” Puck’s not sure what else it would be. “I mean, when I was younger, I usually stayed with Finn if we were both sick, anyway, because of my mom not having the time to take off work. So Hannah couldn’t get sick.”

“Will you be go back home in the next day or two?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Puck answers, feeling a little surprised, because he hadn’t really thought about it. “I mean.” He stops, because maybe saying out loud that it wasn’t really that different in terms of seeing his mom and sister isn’t really something he wants to admit just yet.

“The transition home may be a little rough after all of this. If you find yourself being a little more… sensitive to things? Cut yourself some slack,” Dr. V says. “You’ve dealt with some pretty huge stressors, and you’ve been in an environment where someone who loves you is with you all day long. If that’s a little hard to adjust to not having there all the time, it’s okay.”

“Yeah, we probably won’t sleep well for a few nights,” Puck agrees, because it was bad enough after Chicago.

“I can imagine.” Dr. V looks thoughtful. “So, did anything _good_ happen in the past week?”

“Well, I _did_ get to spend the week with Kurt, even if we were sick,” Puck points out, grinning a little. “Um.” He tries to think of something else. “Oh, I got some new pictures of Beth.”

“Oh? So, who is Beth?”

“Who’s…? Oh.” Puck feels dumb for a second. “Right. Didn’t tell you about Beth.” He pulls his phone out and scrolls down, to the mislabeled album at the bottom. “Beth.” He hands the phone to Dr. V.

Dr. V looks surprised, his eyebrows shooting up. “Is she… another sister?”

Puck shakes his head. “My daughter.” The words feel a little odd in his mouth, and he realizes he’s never had to explain Beth to anyone before. She just was something everyone knew about.

“Hmm,” Dr. V says, “I guess that’s something we can talk about.”

“I had a feeling you might say that.”

 

When they get back from Toledo, Puck heads up the stairs to shower, and Kurt walks into the kitchen to put away the food he bought at Fresh Market. After staring dumbly at the refrigerator for a few minutes, he gives up on healthy food and steals the half–empty box of Finn’s Pop-Tarts, sliding the two foil–wrapped packets into his bag and tossing the box into the trash. Finn will just blame Carole. That decided, he grabs two bottles of water and starts to head up the stairs at last.

“Hey, buddy, is that you?” Kurt hears Burt call out to him softly.

“Hi, Dad,” Kurt answers, walking into the living room and dropping onto the sofa.

“Puck’s thing go alright?”

Kurt nods. “I think so. It’s just been a hard week.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it sure has, kid,” Burt says. “You hear anything from David or Casey?”

“David came to PFLAG today. He looked clean at least.” Kurt smiles slightly at the thought. “I don’t think anyone will get to Casey unless David gives them a gold-plated invitation.”

“That’s kind of an odd thing, the two of them.” Burt shakes his head. “Not a side of that kid I expected to see.”

“No,” Kurt agrees, shrugging slightly. “I don’t think any of us did. But they both needed a friend, so.”

“I guess so,” Burt sighs. “God knows that Casey needs somebody watching out for him. Paul’s been talking with the social worker, trying to get some stuff straightened out, but we don’t know anything yet.”

“As long as he’s not got to go back with his dad,” Kurt shudders.

“Let me tell you what, Kurt, that is not happening,” Burt assures him. “Me and Paul aren’t gonna let that happen. I promise you that.”

“Good.” Kurt sighs. “I’m going to warn you right now that my grades aren’t going to be great for the next three weeks or so.”

“They’re just grades. Not the most important thing on my mind right now, alright? Tell me about you, how are you doing right now?”

Kurt tilts his head to the side a little and lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “I feel a bit like I’m on auto-pilot. But.”

“Yeah,” Burt nods. “Yeah, I can see that. You’ve got a lot of world on your shoulders right now.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Kurt agrees softly. “Oh. Tina’s spearheading it, but the idea is to get that policy off the school district books— no homo promo, as Puck said. She wants people to speak at the next school board meeting…”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good place to start. What do you need me to do? You need me to get some parents on board, talk to some people?”

“I don’t know for sure. I do think Artie was partially right, we do need some adults talking, not just students. But we need the students, too.”

“Tell me when and where, and tell me what you want us to say,” Burt says. “I’ll be there and it’ll happen.” He pauses for a minute and puts his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Kurt. You know that, right? I love you and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.” Kurt manages to muster up a tired smile, because it means something—it means a lot, actually—but he can’t help wishing for a split second that he could go back in time, to just hand everything over and let his dad fix it, all of it. Have a tea party and ride his bike and be done. “I love you too, Dad.”

“Yeah, come ’ere, you,” Burt says, pulling Kurt to him. “I am so grateful for you,” he mutters into Kurt’s hair. “Every day.”

 

"Puck." The voice is soft, and it takes a moment for Puck to register that it's Kurt. "Puck, baby, wake up."

"Hmm?" Puck rolls over onto his side, facing Kurt, who's propping his head up on his hand. "What time is it?"

"Mmm, late," Kurt acknowledges. "And no, nothing's wrong."

"Ookay." Puck yawns. "Why are we awake, then?"

"Let me show you."

"Show me?" That's all Puck manages to get out before Kurt's lips close over his, warm and freshly slicked with lip balm of some kind or another. Kurt's arm is around Puck’s waist now, hand slowly sliding under Puck’s shirt and up his back, and his other hand is resting lightly under Puck’s cheek, sort of urging Puck to stay right there.

It sounds like a damn good idea, actually, and Puck returns the kiss with more enthusiasm than he expected from himself after the past week, and in the middle of the night. He runs his tongue along Kurt's lips, waiting for them to part, and then slides his tongue inside, skimming over Kurt's own, and Kurt groans into his mouth.

They don't pull apart until Kurt has Puck’s undershirt nearly off, and Puck has to pull away so Kurt can finish the job. "What about?" Puck asks, gesturing towards the hall, the other inhabitants of the house. He remembers what Burt says, and he doesn't really want to get thrown out in the middle of the night.

"The door _is_ open," Kurt points out, his teeth nipping at Puck's collarbone. "And I'll take all the blame. I _need_ you, baby. I need to feel you around me. Please, Puck. Please, baby."

"Okay," Puck murmurs reassuringly. "Okay, blue eyes. I need you, too." He presses soft kisses to Kurt's jawline and down his throat, careful not to leave a mark. To be on the safe side, he probably shouldn't leave any visible marks again until after Regionals, really, with auditions in a week and Regionals nipping at their heels.

As soon as Puck acquiesces, Kurt strips off his own clothes, laying them on top of Puck's sleeveless undershirt on the far side of the bed, then pulls off Puck's sweatpants, adding them to the pile. Puck spares a moment to be glad he didn't feel like finding a clean pair of underwear after showering, and then Kurt's hand is closing around his cock. "God, baby," Kurt mutters. "Let's not get sick again."

Puck laughs quietly. "I hear you." The fingers of Kurt's other hand tease at Puck's entrance, circling it before two push firmly inside, making Puck gasp a little as he relaxes into the feeling.

"Turn over," Kurt commands, withdrawing his fingers, and Puck turns, closing his eyes as Kurt's fingers return once he's completed the movement. "There," Kurt adds, tone smug, and with that, he slides a third finger inside Puck, slowly moving them apart and then together, brushing against Puck's prostate in what Puck is pretty sure is deliberate, teasing strokes.

"Fuck, K," Puck breathes. "Come on, please."

"Please what?" Kurt asks, voice almost mirthful.

"Hurry up and get inside me already," Puck growls under his breath, and Kurt giggles a little before nudging Puck's leg up and doing just that, slowly sliding into Puck until Kurt's body is flush against Puck's.

"Better?" Kurt quips, his voice heavy with the strain of staying still.

"Much," Puck agrees. "You know, ah. What would make it even better, though?"

"If I moved?" Puck can hear the grin on Kurt's face, and he turns his head back as far as he can, fumbling in the dark to connect their lips. Kurt's mouth is open on his, sloppy and perfect, and when Kurt pulls away, Puck nods almost automatically.

"Fuck yes."

Another giggle, and Kurt does just that, sliding in and out of Puck exquisitely slowly, his hand wrapped around Puck's waist and toying with Puck's erection. There's really no other word for it; he's tracing tiny circles around the base with his fingertips, his touch light and really, barely there would be a better way to describe it. "You're so amazing," Kurt murmurs in Puck's ear. "I'm so fucking lucky, baby. God, so lucky. Want to stay here with you."

"Yesss. Do that," Puck responds, nodding. "All yours, K." As Kurt speeds up, the hand on Puck's cock gripping more firmly, a stray memory travels across Puck's mind, something Casey said, back in the fall, about how Kurt and Puck look at each other. Puck closes his eyes, briefly imagining a world without this, a world where Kurt gave up, or Puck himself gave up, and he can't do it, can't even begin to contemplate it.

It's not until he registers the weeping behind him that he realizes he's crying, too, and neither of them are being particularly quiet. "Love you," Kurt chokes out, still thrusting into Puck. "I love you, so much. Don't. Don't leave me."

"No," Puck shakes his head. "No. Fuck. I love you, K. Don't you dare leave me, either." He tightens around Kurt's cock almost involuntarily, pushing back onto him and then forward into Kurt's hand. "Just don't, don't ever."

Kurt's head is almost resting on Puck's, their tears mingling together, and Kurt's grip grows tighter, moving at a faster speed. "Come for me, baby," he whispers right into Puck's ear, and Puck bites back a cry as he does just that, almost perfectly on cue. Kurt slides into him repeatedly, faster and faster, until he comes, too, slumping over Puck with a cry that isn't all that quiet, for all their earlier effort.

Neither of them speaks for a long time, Kurt slipping out and Puck turning so they can fit against each other. Puck's not sure if Kurt's fallen asleep maybe, even, when Kurt slowly and softly starts to talk again.

"We're going to do this. We're going to get out of here. It's not going to be pretty, but we're getting out of here, together. Too many priorities already, but we have to just. I don't know. Power through."

Puck nods. "Yeah. Okay. You first. Auditions second. Regionals third. Schoolwork fourth?"

"PFLAG fifth. The rest…" Kurt trails off. They don't have time for staying late after Sunday night rehearsals, or really even Thursday night stress relief this week. They just need to get done. "But Saturday, still."

"We can work there. And some on the way there and back."

"Yes." Kurt tucks his head under Puck's chin. "Tell me we'll make it."

"Blue eyes, in just over a week, we'll be in New York. We'll make it."

"Okay." Puck can hear Kurt's voice growing heavy with sleep. "If you wake up before the alarm, wake me up."

"I have to go back to work in the morning."

"I know. Wake me up then, too."

"Okay. Sleep, K." There's no answer, just soft, steady breathing, and Puck closes his own eyes. Maybe things will look brighter in the morning.

 

Finn doesn't have the right to hear that. He doesn't have the right. It's too private, too _raw_ , and Finn wishes he could shut his bedroom door with mind–powers so he couldn't hear it. Instead he lies there, frozen, and pretends not to listen. He pretends even harder not to be jealous, because why should he be jealous?

It's just the last few days, that's all. It's the flu and the secondary infection. It's Rachel and how she thinks she knows better than everyone; it's Casey being pushed so far that he'd rather be dead than have to take any more; it's Karofsky falling apart in the waiting room like the only thing in the world that mattered to him was on the other side of those doors. Finn is exhausted, and everything in the world is wrong and shot to hell. That's all it is.

Finn's just shaken up by the things that have happened. He's just lonely and hearing them together reminds him of all the things he doesn’t have. It reminds him of the things he’s going to lose and the people who will leave him. What he pretends not to hear, it’s beautiful and it’s sorrowful and it _hurts_ , but he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t have the right.

 

Puck hates the alarm on his phone. Five days—six, really—of pretending the rest of the world wasn’t quite out there, that there wasn’t work and other obligations. An enforced vacation of sorts, and no, not the kind he particularly wanted, but it feels like an ending of some kind when he turns off the alarm and slides out of bed to get dressed. Black pants, black shirt, boots, and then he tries to find something else to throw on after work. He shoves the extra T-shirt into his backpack, along with his still–large pharmacy, and leans back over the bed.

“Kurt,” he whispers softly. “Kurt.”

“Mmmfff.” Kurt flops onto his back. “You have to go already?”

“Yeah.” He runs a finger down Kurt’s nose and grins as Kurt wrinkles it. “I’m gonna go grab a banana and a packet of instant oatmeal, and then I’m out the door.”

“Okay.” Kurt exhales and opens his eyes. “Hang on, I’ll walk downstairs with you.” He sits up and frowns. “Ugh. And clean up, and put clothes on.”

Puck laughs. “Yeah, we’re just lucky your dad didn’t come by and notice us undressed,” he says quietly as Kurt pulls on the first pair of pants he finds. He stands up and frowns. “Those are mine, K,” Puck points out.

“Good point,” Kurt yawns, then rolls the waistband over once. “There, perfect.”

“Sure,” Puck agrees, kissing Kurt lightly and then heading quietly down the stairs as Kurt pulls on the sweatshirt that he stole from Puck months ago. Puck has a feeling he’s going to lose those sweatpants permanently, too.

He grabs the banana and then starts to head for the instant oatmeal, but Kurt’s already dumped it in a cup, waiting on the electric kettle to heat up, and the coffee is already brewing. “You’re still working this afternoon?” Kurt asks quietly, pulling out a second styrofoam cup.

“Yeah.” Puck shrugs. “I may regret it.”

“Dad hasn’t said you have to go home yet, so. Come back here?”

“I technically need to use your piano anyway.”

“Very true.” The kettle whistles and Kurt pulls away, fixing the oatmeal and handing Puck that cup. “Well. I’ve stalled you as long as I can.”

Puck laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

Kurt steps close and kisses him slowly. “See you in a couple of hours.”

“Be good.”

Puck can just make out Kurt’s answer over the gurgle of the coffee pot. “I’m always good.”

 

Mrs. Vey’s inexplicable adoration of Puck as a student comes in handy yet again as he tries to stumble through an excuse for not having the day’s essay and walks away with a free A and her assurances that he shouldn’t worry about the three short answer questions due Friday, either.

Puck is jolted from his contemplation of physics and Kurt, though if he’s honest it’s more Kurt and the tight purple pants he’s wearing, when he walks into English and sees Rachel beaming at him. “Noah! It’s so good to see you! How have you been? Are you sufficiently recovered from the after-effects of your influenza infection?”

“Uh.” Puck stares at her and drops into his seat. Most of the entirety of PFLAG has been kind of sober, at least the people he’s seen, like their happiness is tinged a little. Rachel is downright fucking chipper.

“What was the topic of discussion in PFLAG yesterday? I hated to miss it but of course my audition for Juilliard was yesterday!” She bounces in her seat a little. “And I did quite well, even if I say so myself.”

“We talked about getting the no homo promo policy off the books,” Puck answers one of her questions. “And about suicide statistics.”

“That’s… unexpected.” Rachel looks perplexed. “Was that on the list of topics Kurt discussed previously?”

“It seemed like an appropriate topic,” Puck mutters, frowning. He looks around the room at the rest of the class, because somehow it’s not become major gossip yet.

“Appropriate? Why on earth?” Rachel keeps pressing, relentless, and Puck remembers why he calls her his _annoying_ younger cousin.

“Look. Monday afternoon, Karofsky called Kurt from St. Rita’s,” Puck answers under his breath. “Because Casey fucking tried to kill himself.”

Rachel gasps. “What? No. That’s—”

“What happened.” Puck keeps frowning. “It’s what happened, and it’s real, and some of us have more to worry about than _just_ an audition.” He looks around the room and figures out that they’re supposed to be peer editing, so he stands up and stalks back up to the front of the room. He needs to ask his English teacher for an extension on the paper that’s due tomorrow, anyway.

 

The rest of Wednesday feels too normal, from the studying plus dancing in fourth period through all five hours at work. When he gets back to Kurt’s, Kurt’s commandeered the living room for them, the television off and Kurt curled up on the couch.

“You have any of those absurd English worksheets?”

“And an extension on the paper that was due tomorrow. I don’t have to turn it in until Monday. Automatic partial letter–grade down, so the highest I can get is an A–, but like I’d get that high if I had to turn it in tomorrow.” Puck shakes his head. “Not like the difference between a B– and B or whatever is going to keep me out of school.”

“True. All right.” Kurt sets down what he’s working on, which looks like French, maybe, and holds out his hand. “I’ll do the worksheets while you work on your audition stuff.”

“What about yours?”

“Dad sent me home after an hour.” Kurt rolls his eyes. “So I worked on it for a couple of hours. This,” he indicates the French in front of him, “is the last thing I needed to work on for tomorrow, even though she said I could wait and turn it in next week.”

“Okay,” Puck yawns a little and nods. “At least some of the teachers were understanding. Kind of awesome, Sanders was just like, oh, you didn’t do the lab, I just won’t include that grade.”

“Yes, I don’t know when we could have made that up.” Kurt sighs. “All right, gerunds it is!”

They work for a long time before Puck abandons the piano and crawls onto the couch beside Kurt, who’s back to working on his French. “Think we should keep swapping our homework?”

“Hmmm.” Kurt stops writing and bites at his lip. “Elucidate.”

“We already split up the physics work. Neither of us really needs it except as a grade and a credit, right?” He pauses for Kurt to nod. “So, yeah, I do your math, you do my English, I do more of the physics, you do some of my history. It’s not like the best plan, but maybe just until mid–March or something.”

“Yeah.” Kurt nods after a minute. “That’s true. And it doesn’t matter, really. I’ll pay someone to do the taxes,” he adds with a little laugh.

“Just don’t argue with me about buying renter’s insurance,” Puck teases him, moving his mouth over Kurt’s neck up to the little spot behind his ear, running his tongue over it lightly.

“Keep doing that and ah…” Kurt pauses, tilting his head to the side and running his hand up Puck’s arm. “I won’t argue about anything.”

“Good to know,” Puck murmurs, then tilts Kurt’s chin towards him, kissing him softly for a long moment before slowly deepening the kiss.

“Kurt having a hard time breathing?” Burt’s voice interrupts.

“Mmmhmm,” Kurt responds, pulling away slightly and sort of waving vaguely in the direction of Burt’s voice.

“Nice of Puckerman to help out with that,” Burt says, wryly, then Puck can hear him head up the stairs.

“I’m very helpful,” Puck insists, and Kurt grins.

“You are.” Kurt closes the distance between them again. “Extremely helpful. Why don’t you come help me out upstairs?”

“Upstairs as in, in bed?”

“Exactly like that,” Kurt confirms, standing slowly and stretching, the movement pulling his sweater up enough to reveal a strip of pale skin. Puck’s eyes trace it almost without his permission, though he’d definitely give it, and he stands to follow Kurt up the stairs.

“I’d be happy to assist,” Puck agrees, and Kurt smiles brilliantly at him, stopping on the landing to pull him close.

“I was sure you would be.”

 

Puck ignores Rachel during English on Thursday, which is somewhat difficult to do, but at least it’s a full–out lecture on background context for _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ , which apparently they are supposed to read and write a paper on before getting extra credit if they go see it at OSU–Lima in March. Puck wonders if his English teacher is in charge of their ticket sales or something. The lack of class discussion makes it easier to ignore Rachel, since she can’t talk to him while another student is participating in discussion – her usual MO.

She doesn’t even try to talk to him on the way to the auditorium, though, pacing herself just a little behind him. Puck wonders if he’s happened onto the wrong rehearsal, though, when he first opens the door and is greeted with streamers and balloons.

“What is this?” he can’t help but grumble, walking down the stairs.

“It’s my birthday!” Mercedes calls out. “Sam did all of this for me.”

Of course, Sam thinking of it on his own seems dubious at best to Puck, but he shrugs a little and nods. “Okay. Is there cake?”

“There’s cake, but it’s got some kind of weird filling in it,” Artie says. “Raspberry jelly or something.”

“Huh. Well, chocolate and raspberry taste okay together.”

“It’s white cake,” Artie explains. “White frosting, raspberry jelly.”

Puck stares at Sam, then Mercedes. “What kind of dessert is that?”

“Don’t tell me, one without chocolate?” Kurt’s voice comes from behind Puck.

“There are several delicious desserts that don’t involve chocolate!” Rachel protests. “Like crème brûlée.”

“That’s that bland custard stuff, right?” Puck asks, and shakes his head.

“I just got what the lady tol— asked for,” Sam says mildly.

“I like all kinds of cake,” Brittany says. “White cake, chocolate cake, yellow cake, crab cake.”

There are a few scattered laughs before Mercedes pipes up again. “No cake, until we have some singing. To me, I mean.”

Brittany sudden starts belting out “You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman,” holding her plate out expectantly.

When she finishes, Kurt grins at Mercedes. “Happy birthday, ’Cedes.”

Mercedes looks a little put out, but cuts the cake anyway and distributes it. Puck passes it up because, really, what _is_ the point? It’s not chocolate. At that point, Finn comes slogging through the auditorium doors.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he says, without much enthusiasm. “Had to talk to some teachers about assignments or whatever. Oh, there’s cake?”

“It’s not chocolate,” Puck says mournfully, shaking his head. “Oh, and it’s Mercedes’ birthday.”

“Oh, happy birthday,” Finn says to Mercedes. “Yeah, and wait a second.” He rifles through his back pack and comes up with a squished red box, which he hands to Puck. “I think there’s some in here.”

Puck grins and opens it up, finding a few scattered and squashed pieces. “Does this mean I have to be your valentine now?”

“Dude, you’re always my valentine,” Finn shrugs.

Tina overhears the exchange and giggles. “Such a sweet couple.”

“We’re beautiful together,” Finn says, putting an arm around Puck’s shoulders. “Hush.”

“Oh, there you are, Finn!” Rachel appears on the other side of Puck. “How are you feeling?”

Finn’s arm tightens a little across Puck’s shoulders. “Better–ish,” Finn says, keeping his voice neutral.

Puck sort of wishes he could escape, but Finn’s arm is keeping him pretty well in place, so he shoves another piece of the chocolate in his mouth and exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Kurt, who pauses mid–bite of cake to shrug sympathetically.

“I can’t believe that you ended up so sick! Are you sure you should be here when you still can’t answer your phone?”

“Yeah, we aren’t doing this here,” Finn says abruptly. “Everybody, eat cake and we’ll try to pretend we’re a show choir, ok?”

“Is that what we’re doing here?” Mike jokes, clearly attempting to inject some levity. “That explains a lot, actually.”

“Well, some of us have to pretend harder than others,” Finn says, but he cracks a grin at Mike. “I keep hoping nobody will notice!”

“In all seriousness, dude,” Mike continues, walking over closer to Finn, “should you sit out the dancing, at least?”

“I’ll manage,” Finn shrugs. “Don’t expect it to be… well, you shouldn’t ever expect it to be good, but don’t expect it to be, like, energetic?”

“Exercise and activity boost endorphins and aid in recovery!” Rachel exclaims, though at least her comment seems to be directed at all three of them, judging by the way she glances at Kurt and Puck as well.

“You know what else does that?” Finn counters. “Go fu—”

“Okay!” Puck says loudly, turning Finn bodily away from Rachel. “Tubthumping, dance shoes on. Right?” He raises an eyebrow at Finn, who rolls his eyes, but nods.

“Yeah, dance shoes. Puck’s right. Let’s do this.”

It’s not their best rehearsal ever, but no one trips or falls, and no one’s nose or anything gets broken, so Puck is going to take that as a kind of victory, honestly. Finn throws some random glares in Rachel’s direction, but mostly seems to focus on keeping everybody on task. For her part, Rachel casts wounded looks at Finn from under her eyelashes, but Puck’s pretty sure she mistimes them enough that Finn doesn’t even notice. Add to that Mercedes’ seeming huffiness that she has to rehearse on her birthday (twice, she notes), and it’s a little bit of a relief when Finn declares the rehearsal over.

“So, Schue this afternoon,” Finn says, out of breath. He pulls an inhaler out of his pocket and takes a puff of it. “Man, I’m gonna be glad when my lungs work again. So, yeah, so. Schue. Anybody got an idea where his head’s at right now? ’Cause I’m not in the mood for crap today.”

“He’s been pretty low–key all week,” Sam offers, “at least in class. Not saying much to _anyone_. Last week, on Thursday afternoon, he just ignored the whole issue, had three of us perform, and that was it.”

“Yeah, well, after the way this week started, he’d better be low–key,” Finn grumbles. “Ok, everybody. I’ll see you then.”

There’s a low murmur of exchanged pleasantries, and Puck pulls out his phone, trying to figure out if he should just suck it up and eat in the cafeteria or not, when Kurt makes the decision for him, pulling Finn over towards him. “If we’re quick, we can go home and eat. Finn’s got fifth free and it’s not like Ms. Pillsbury’s monitoring you that closely.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Puck looks at Finn. “You holding up?”

Finn shrugs. “I’ve had better weeks, but I think that’s, like, a theme for us this week, right?”

“Better months,” Kurt counters.

“Everything _sucks_ ,” Finn agrees. “Guess I’ve gotta do my song today, huh?”

“I wonder who did on Thursday,” Puck muses, even though it doesn’t really matter. “And seriously, is Schue just going to ignore everything?” He shakes his head.

“Probably,” Kurt says, shrugging.

“Wonder what their personal statements were or whatever,” Finn says, though he doesn’t actually sound that curious about it. “Probably like, oh, it’s so hard to pick the right nail polish or wow, it’s awful that I have curfew.”

“Come on,” Kurt says softly, even though Puck can tell Kurt wants to laugh and agree with Finn. “Maybe we can find some surprise mushrooms.”

“Just no bean sprouts or whatever. I can’t believe you brought that shit home.”

“It’s for Pretzel, not us,” Kurt points out. “The thin–sliced steak is for us.”

“Poor Pretzel.”

Puck laughs. “Poor Carole, more like. At least Pretzel won’t taste them.”

 

Puck ignores the clock for the most part throughout the afternoon. He’s not really sure anymore if he’s studying for his class or his auditions, but it’s close enough to the same thing that he’s not going to analyze it. He’s still playing the Mendelssohn piece when the bell rings and he keeps going, playing it through to the end.

“That was beautiful.”

Puck turns, startled. “Quinn.” She looks equally surprised, whether at Puck’s playing or the fact that she complimented it, Puck isn’t sure.

“I didn’t know you could play like that,” she says, softly. “It’s really nice.”

“Thanks,” Puck settles on, nodding slightly and shuffling all his stuff into a pile, pushing it out of the way so Brad has room for his own shit.

Quinn takes a seat and the rest of the glee club starts trickling in, everybody looking slightly uneasy. The regular chatter is muted, everyone looking up at the door periodically. Finn’s sour look and slouched posture in the chair probably don’t help.

Puck decides that the best option is for he and Kurt to flank him, so he moves to the chair next to Finn and assumes his own best defensive posture. Kurt hides a smile when he walks in, taking the other side and crossing his legs. Rachel’s eyes widen when she hurries in, the last one to arrive, and she huffs as she falls into a seat next to Mike.

“All right, who’s got a personal statement for us today? I really enjoyed last Thursday’s.” The comment almost seems pointed. “Sam, that was such a great rendition of Van Halen’s ‘Right Now’. And wow, Mercedes, ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’.” Schue shakes his head with a small smile. “Of course, Mike did a great job with ‘Shameless’, too.”

Finn snorts quietly and Puck can see him rolling his eyes. “I’d like to go first, if I can, Mr. Schue?” Tina says quietly, and after Schue nods, she stands up and walks to the front of the room.

“I, uh. Picked this out the day of the dance, but, well.” She smiles a little. “This is Ben Lee’s ‘We’re All in this Together’.”

_I woke up this morning  
I suddenly realised  
We're all in this together  
I started smiling  
’Cause you were smiling  
And we're all in this together  
I'm made of atoms  
You're made of atoms  
And we're all in this together.  
And long division just doesn't matter  
’Cause we're all in this together… yeah_

The song is poignant, Puck thinks, or at least it is if he’s got the definition of poignant correct. Tina’s voice is clear and sweet and he makes a mental note that really, Tina needs a good solo for Nationals, if the other girls would stop pushing themselves over her.

_Come on baby I don't mean to rush you  
I only wanted to reach out and touch you  
I've got to start to open my heart_

_I know you think about jumping ship before it sinks  
But we are all in this together  
Ask a scientist  
It's quantum physics  
We are all in this together  
And on the subway we feel like strangers  
But we're all in this together  
Yeah I love you and you love us and she loves her  
But we're all in this together_

Tina looks wistful at the end of the song, and she squeezes Mike’s hand tightly as she sits back down.

“That was pretty dope,” Artie says, giving Tina the ’sup nod. She smiles slightly and returns it, which looks a little silly, but cute.

“All right, nice selection,” Schue says. “Who’s up next?”

“I’ll go.” Kurt unfolds his legs and strides to the front of the room. He doesn’t introduce the song or anything, just whispers something to Brad that makes the guy actually smile as he starts to play.

_Take me now, baby, here as I am  
Hold me close, and try and understand  
Desire is hunger is the fire I breathe  
Love is a banquet on which we feed_

_Come on now, try and understand  
The way I feel under your command  
Take my hand, as the sun descends  
They can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now_

It’s a good choice, really good, actually, Puck thinks, even more so because he knows Kurt picked it out right after Schue gave them the assignment. He recognizes the careful way Kurt doesn’t make any eye contact, just sings, and he vaguely wishes he’d thought to record it.

_With love we sleep,  
With doubt the vicious circle turns, and burns  
Without you, oh I cannot live,  
Forgive the yearning burning  
I believe it's time to heal to feel,  
So take me now, take me now, take me now_

_Because the night belongs to lovers  
Because the night belongs to us  
Because the night belongs to lovers  
Because the night belongs to us_

Kurt walks back to his seat without comment, recrossing his arms and legs both, clearly almost waiting for someone to say something.

“Kurt, that was amazing,” Brittany says. “It’s totally true.”

Kurt smiles slightly, turning to look at her. “Thanks, Britt.”

“An interesting choice for a personal statement,” Schue says, looking a little strangled, and Puck has to hide a smirk at the perfectly innocent look Kurt turns on him. “All right, one more today?”

“Yeah, I’ll go,” Finn says, not waiting for Schue to agree, just standing up and handing some papers to the jazz band. Finn looks grim, his mouth clenched and his hands in tight fists at his side.

_Morning calls for pain relief  
A line above the step beneath  
The worst that you could do  
And the best that you could hope for  
Is hardly the best_

Somehow Puck isn’t surprised by Finn’s choice, since Puck’s pretty sure he’s heard it at least five times in the last two days, and probably a lot more than that.

_Tepid water chase the pills  
With turpentine and chamomile  
And don't get cheap with the wine  
You need to be up all of the time _

_Shield your eyes, conceal your lies._

Finn looks like he’s considering the value of crying, or maybe he’s having an allergic reaction to being so close to Schue, but that seems doubtful, no matter how useful it might be.

_Don't blink, everyone's watching.  
They'll think you're up to something.  
They need for you to be everything  
that they cannot._

But Finn just squeezes his eyes shut and keeps singing, like he can’t contemplate anything _but_ finishing the song. The lyrics repeat one more time, and on the second way through, the last part ends with:

_They need for you to be everything  
that they cannot be themselves, be themselves._

And maybe Puck wasn’t being totally fair, because yeah, Finn didn’t have a shitty life at home, but he still gets it a lot more than most of the rest of the morons listening to the song. There’s a complete silence as the song ends and Finn walks back to his seat, still glaring at the room.

“That was a compelling statement, Finn, but are you sure it’s an accurate reflection?” Rachel questions.

“When did you turn into such a stack of _bitch_?” Finn snaps at her. “You weren’t even here. You have no idea what the last few days have been like!” Finn snatches up his bag. “I don’t need this. I’m going home. Just… just go to hell, Rach.”

“Oh, hell,” Kurt says softly under his breath, and he grabs his own bag, looking at Puck, who nods, and they follow Finn out, leaving behind the screeching sound Rachel’s making and the utterly ironic comment from Quinn, “Boys are so stupid, Rachel.”

 

Puck and Kurt don’t try to catch up with Finn, just trail him from a distance, until Kurt makes a funny noise in his throat and shakes his head. “Really,” he whispered. “He’s lucky he’s sick, sitting on my baby like that.”

Puck chuckles. “That’s probably why. His one opportunity to do it.” He tilts his head. “You ever gonna give him the door code?”

“Oh, where would the fun in that be?”

When they get closer, Finn notices them and looks up, a little embarrassed. “Sorry, guys. You didn’t have to leave. I just had to get out of there.”

“I’m pretty sure the meeting was over,” Kurt says lightly. “And it’s 29°F out here, Finn.”

“I forgot I didn’t drive myself,” Finn confesses, “and I can’t get into the Nav.”

“Oh, really, you two,” Kurt shakes his head. “Is this a conspiracy?” He unlocks the doors and climbs in, smiling slightly.

“Absolutely,” Puck agrees. “He bribed me with chocolate this morning.”

“It was there,” Finn shrugs, settling himself into the back seat. “Figured you’d eat it. Is it wrong that I just wanna take a nap?”

“That actually sounds like a fantastic idea,” Kurt comments, starting the engine. “A nap, food, more sleep.”

“I want a do–over on the last week and a half,” Finn mumbles, leaning his head against the window. “We’ll get it all right the next time through.”

“Yeah, no, we’d just screw up something else,” Puck says, and maybe it’s a little morose, but that’s how it feels.

“No way. Fix all the things,” Finn insists, closing his eyes. “Everything.”

Kurt sighs. “Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.”

“What do we do? We swim,” Finn answers.

 

Finn does disappear into his room for a nap, but Puck and Kurt end up on Kurt’s bed, half-heartedly attempting homework and talking.

“I know it’s not your thing, but I think I’m going to go over to services tomorrow night, after dinner.”

“Well, if I were inclined to believe in a higher power of any type, yours is one of the best I’ve encountered,” Kurt says wryly, waving his hand dismissively. “What time?”

“Seven, so we should probably be done with dinner.”

Kurt nods. “Definitely.” He sighs. “Dad’s probably going to make you go home soon. I don’t know, I was sort of hoping we could get through Saturday night out of him.”

“That would be so nice,” Puck agrees. “But.”

“Yeah.” Kurt looks mournful. “Maybe he’ll concede through Friday night. I mean, we’re both getting up early, to head to Dayton, right? It would be horrible if you woke your mom and sister.”

“Exactly.” Puck grins. “Of course, I leave almost every morning for work without them waking up, but maybe he’ll forget that.”

“Or at least pretend to forget it.” Kurt leans his head over, resting it on Puck’s shoulder. “Or we could just tell him you’re moving in. Think that would work?”

“Probably not,” Puck frowns and shakes his head. “It’s a nice idea, though, definitely.”

“It is.” Kurt’s voice gets a little dreamy. “No one even questions you being here, or riding with Finn or I. You could use the piano and we’d have five people to share cooking and cleaning duties. Where’s the problem?”

“Hmm. Other than the fact that I don’t think your dad’s going to go for it?”

“Yes, other than that large and insurmountable fact,” Kurt agrees, nodding and heaving himself back upright. “But! A week from today we’re going to be in New York.” He purses his lips. “I’m choosing to focus on that fact, not on the fact that it means the auditions are a week from now.”

“Don’t say that!” Puck groans and falls backward. “What was that you did when your dad tried to talk about sex with you the first time? Fingers in ears?” Kurt giggles and tries to look affronted, failing miserably. Puck jams his fingers in his years. “Lalalala. Right? I can’t hear you!”

Kurt giggles harder, falling over on the bed. “You’re so silly!” Puck can barely make out, and Puck grins in response. He can’t fix most things, but at least he can get Kurt laughing. Kurt leans forward and presses his lips to Puck’s, a few last giggles escaping like little bubbles. Puck knows they don’t have the time to finish anything that they start, especially since Kurt apparently volunteered them to cook dinner, but he still pulls his fingers out of his ears and uses his hands to pull Kurt on top of him.

“Tease.”

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” Kurt answers, voice low. “Sound good?”

“Yes.” Puck presses up against Kurt’s body. “Always, blue eyes.”

Kurt grins. “Good.” He slips off Puck and off the bed, and Puck absolutely does not whimper pitifully for a moment. “Come on, baby. We have to cook dinner.”

“Why’d you volunteer us for that again?”

Kurt looks sheepish for half a moment. “So maybe Dad would forget to tell you to go home for another few days.”

“Conned by food. I like it.”

 

Dinner turns out to be this absurdly buttery steak sandwich with roasted potatoes, and surprise mushrooms on the sandwich, and Puck wishes he had a camera out when Burt walks into the kitchen.

“Wow, guys,” Burt says, staring at the dinner spread. “Wait, I’m allowed to eat this, right?”

“It would be cruel not to,” Kurt concedes, with an air of great reluctance that Puck speculates Burt can also see straight through. “But I thought we should replenish our iron stores.”

“So, no sneaking fish into mine at the last minute?”

“Not today. So enjoy it,” Kurt says firmly.

“I love my son,” Burt says, hugging Kurt. “Hear that, everybody? I love my son! My son feeds me meat!”

“That’s nice, honey,” Carole replies, shaking her head as she walks into the kitchen. “Ohh, those potatoes smell delicious, boys.”

“Good,” Kurt responds, flashing her a smile. “I think it’s all ready, now.”

“I heard meat,” Finn says, appearing in the kitchen. “Did someone shout meat?”

“Yep. Lots of meat,” Puck answers, smiling a little too brightly.

“You look too happy about… hey, are there surprise mushrooms again?”

“Surprise mushrooms? Would we do that? K, he thinks we’d put surprise mushrooms on the sandwiches!”

“I love mushrooms,” Carole announces, which is odd, because two weeks ago, she was picking mushrooms off pizza.

“Now I _know_ there’s surprise mushrooms on there, dude,” Finn says, shaking his head. “Lucky for you, I like mushrooms. I just don’t, you know, expect them or whatever.”

“No one expects the Mushroom Inquisition.” All four of them turn to look at Carole, who just shrugs. “Is it time to eat now?”

“I hope so, I’m starving,” Burt says, pulling out a chair for Carole. They’re really bad at hiding the whole Pretzel thing, because Puck can’t remember the last time he saw anyone pull out a chair for anyone else. Probably Mike at China Buffet back before Hanukkah, and that’s just weird Asian manners, clearly, because Tina’s not knocked up.

“It is,” Kurt agrees, and the rest of them sit down. “There’s not any extra meat, so enjoy what you have.”

“Guaranteed,” Burt says. “I will enjoy it.”

“So, Finn, how was your first day back?” Carole asks. “Did you have any trouble? Any teachers give you a hard time about missing assignments?”

“It was…” Finn pauses and exhales loudly. “There’s no trouble with the school work, it’s just, adjusting back is hard, I guess.”

“What do you mean, sweetie?” Carole frowns, clearly concerned.

“Just, it feels like so much stuff in the world has _changed_ , you know? Only it hasn’t for anybody else. It’s just… they still act like everything is normal and that the worst thing that could ever go wrong with anyone is missing a rehearsal,” Finn says, around bites of his sandwich.

“Oh, Finn.” Carole sniffs and she looks like she’s close to tears, actually. “Is Mr. Schuester one of those people?”

Finn sighs and rolls his eyes a little. “Schue and Rachel and, I dunno, a lot of people.”

Carole dabs at her eyes with her napkin, and Burt pats her on the arm gently. “I don’t know what to tell you, Finn,” Burt says, “other than I’ve learned that the world doesn’t stop and other people don’t change just because something changes for one person.”

“It’s true,” Carole says, nodding sadly.

“The world is stupid,” Finn grumbles. “I hate it.”

“The world _is_ stupid,” Kurt agrees, nodding.

“Poor Earth,” Puck says, shaking his head. “Not the planet’s fault all the people are dumb.”

“I wish everything was normal, like, that everybody was ok and stupid stuff didn’t happen,” Finn says. “And then I feel like an idiot for thinking like that, because, I mean, duh, of course nobody wants bad stuff to happen, but it does.”

“Oh, sweetie, no, I know what you mean,” Carole nods sympathetically. “You boys have had a very rough week, and you’ve all handled it very well.”

Finn gets that expression on his face, his guilty look, but he doesn’t say anything. “Oh, she deserved it,” Kurt whispers under his breath to Finn, who gives Kurt a lopsided grin.

“What else do you boys have going on this week?” Burt asks. “You might want to lie low, take it easy.”

Puck has the absurd mental image of them being on the lam or something, hiding out from, maybe not the cops. Crazy homophobes, or that ugly blonde woman. Puck has a feeling they’d do a pretty poor job of fooling people, though. Hell, the nurses in the ER on Monday thought _Finn_ was gay.

“Puck and I were going to go to the center in Dayton on Saturday,” Kurt informs Burt. “And I suppose we have rehearsal tomorrow afternoon and Sunday evening?” Kurt looks at Finn, who shrugs and half–nods. “And the things next week that Puck isn’t thinking about.” Kurt looks up at Puck, smirking, and Puck grins and sticks his fingers back in his ears.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Ah, yeah,” Burt nods. “You feeling okay about that?”

Kurt elbows Puck and nods at the same time. “Have to get through it eventually. We already have more time to prepare than anyone else.”

“That’s true,” Puck concedes, removing his fingers from his ears. “Mike was flying out tonight.”

“Wait, you’re going somewhere?” Finn looks confused.

“Auditions, remember?” Kurt fills in.

“Uh, no, not really. Wait, that’s the thing in New York, right?”

“Right.” Kurt nods. “We fly out Wednesday around six.”

“Oh, cool, yeah.”

“There’s some dessert,” Kurt offers.

“What kind of dessert?” Finn looks interested.

“Strawberry shortcake,” Kurt answers, looking smug.

“Yes!” Finn says, with accompanying victory fists.

“Is that what I smell cooking in the oven?” Carole asks, her face brightening.

“Angel food cake,” Puck nods at her. “And there’s whipped cream, too.”

“You’re a saint, Kurt,” Burt says. “Red meat and dessert?”

“It’s a heart–healthy dessert,” Kurt points out. “One you could enjoy regularly throughout strawberry season. These are Florida strawberries, obviously, so early in the year.”

“Oh, totally, yeah,” Finn agrees. “Obviously.”

Puck snorts as he takes the whipped cream from Kurt and sets it on the table. He’s not really sure why it had to be whipped cream that they whipped, but he guesses that is sort of cool.

“You’ll have to assemble it yourselves, of course, so everyone can get their preferred ratios,” Kurt continues, slicing the angel food cake as soon as it’s out of the pan. “Oh, here, Puck, put these on the table, I have to grab one more thing.”

Puck shrugs and sits down, setting the plate in front of him and watching with amusement as the other three eagerly grab a slice and start assembling. He grins when Kurt finishes with the microwave and sets a jar of chocolate sauce in front of him.

“I knew you’d want at least some chocolate,” Kurt comments wryly.

“This is true,” Puck nods, spooning some of the chocolate over his strawberries before grabbing the whipped cream.

“So, Puckerman,” Burt says, as he’s spooning up a bite of strawberry. “You have plans to go back home any time soon?”

Puck’s glad he just took a bite, because chewing gives him time to formulate a response. Despite Burt’s seemingly good–natured question, he’s pretty sure ‘no’ still isn’t what Burt wants to hear. “Uh. I guess so?” he finally settles on.

“I figured you’d want to go home for at least a day or two before you boys fly out, see your mom and sister,” Burt says. “They’re probably missing you and you need to pack.”

Puck nods cautiously, and Kurt squeezes his leg under the table. “I, uh, should probably make it to family dinner night at least.”

“Alright, that sounds like a good plan,” Burt answers, mildly, scraping the sides of his bowl with his spoon.

Puck blinks, because it _sounds_ like he just got permission to stay at least until Sunday night, and maybe to come back again on Tuesday night. He decides to just nod, shooting a look first at Kurt, who shrugs and smiles a little, and then at Finn, who also shrugs and winks.

Puck decides not to question it or ask for further clarification, at least not at the moment, and continues eating his added–chocolate strawberry shortcake. Carole eats two servings of strawberry shortcake, and he and Kurt exchange a satisfied glance. Score.

 

It’s not hard to stay up later than everyone else in the house; they have a lot of homework, and plenty of things to fuss over for auditions. That said, Puck still feels like Kurt is deliberately stalling, waiting to go upstairs, even, until a good forty-five minutes after Burt’s said good night and turned out all the other lights.

“You weren’t planning to pack pajamas, were you?” Kurt asks in a murmur as he turns on the bedside lamp after brushing his teeth.

“Not particularly,” Puck grins, pulling off his shirt and moving his hand to his waistband. “And tonight, I believe there was mention of something…?”

“You don’t need pajamas tonight,” Kurt agrees, as he strips completely and slides underneath the duvet. “Coming?”

“Mmm, I hope so,” Puck smirks, shedding his jeans and underwear at last, and joining Kurt, pressing up against Kurt’s warm body. “You feel good.”

“Likewise.” Kurt presses open–mouthed kisses up Puck’s jawline and then up to his forehead, over his scalp and the tiny hairs there. “Mmm, I love the way you taste.” Kurt nips at Puck’s ear and then kisses down his neck, suckling on Puck’s collarbone.

“Yeah?” Puck gasps out, throwing his head back.

“Oh, yes.” Kurt’s practically purring, and then he’s urging Puck onto his stomach, and Puck can’t help but moan a little in anticipation of what he thinks is coming. Kurt teases him for a moment, his mouth on Puck’s back and on either side of his ass before finally there’s a little swipe up, and then Kurt’s tongue is teasing around Puck’s entrance.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Puck mutters. There’s an answering murmur before Kurt’s tongue presses inside, moving slowly deeper and deeper. “Oh, yeah, Kurt, just there,” he adds, pushing his ass up just a little. Kurt’s hands are on Puck’s ass cheeks, carefully pulling them aside to give himself better access, and Puck closes his eyes, relishing the feel of Kurt’s warm, wet tongue slowly exploring him. He thrusts down against the mattress, and then shakes his head.

“No, no, inside me, K,” Puck pleads quietly, and Kurt slowly pulls his tongue away, one hand still resting on Puck.

“Mmm, okay,” Kurt agrees, and Puck rolls over again as Kurt quietly pulls out the lube and coats himself. “Legs up, baby.”

Puck nods, moving his legs up as Kurt presses forward, the head of his cock nudging at Puck’s entrance. “We’re, uh. Pretty obvious like this,” he points out.

Kurt appears to consider the statement for a moment, then shrugs. He does reach over and turn out the lamp, then starts to thrust slowly inside Puck. “I’ll tell Dad I pressured you into it.”

Puck has to fight back a laugh, because it’s both unbelievable and totally believable, at the same time. Then Kurt’s completely inside him, the familiar feeling of Kurt’s balls almost tickling him and his own erection brushing against Kurt’s abdomen, and he stops laughing, closing his eyes and just breathing. “Mmm, blue eyes. Perfect.”

“Perfect?” Kurt repeats, leaning down and giving Puck a sloppy kiss, a little bit restrained. “We do fit together well, don’t we?”

“So good,” Puck agrees, tightening around Kurt a little and grinning at the little sound that escapes Kurt’s mouth. Kurt wiggles, his cock twitching inside Puck, and Puck does it again, his grin getting wider when the sound is just a little louder and the wiggling just a little more pronounced. “You are just the sexiest thing,” Puck whispers, and the fingers of Kurt’s hand, still resting on Puck’s hip, grip him in response.

“Tell me,” Kurt asks, voice low as he starts to move again, this time slipping almost out of Puck before sliding back in.

“Oh, fuck,” Puck groans, his breath already a little shallow. “Ah. Fuck, everything, K. All of you. So fucking hot, your mouth and your eyes and your ass and your _cock_ , damn, blue eyes.”

Kurt giggles a little, breathy and short, and his speed increases, pumping into Puck and leaning forward, his mouth sliding along Puck’s chest. Puck wants to say more, but he remembers that the house is full, full of sleeping people that might not stay asleep, and while he has a sneaking suspicion that Kurt wouldn’t actually be averse to being watched, he’s pretty sure his family wouldn’t be a preferred audience. Puck is even more certain that he does not want to be watched by Kurt’s family, so he tries to keep his mouth shut as Kurt thrusts into him, his own lips pressed tightly together.

Kurt’s hand closes around Puck’s erection, thumb teasing over the slit and then fingers sliding down slowly. “Want to feel you come,” Kurt murmurs, his thrusts growing a little harder as the speed increases.

“Mmm,” is the only response Puck can muster verbally, meeting Kurt’s thrusts and trying not to cry out. He’s close, so close, and when Kurt’s hand tightens around him and twists, he does come, biting down on his lip so hard that he’s almost sure he’s making himself bleed. He can make out the outline of Kurt, head thrown back as he thrusts in again, and then Puck is full, warm and full and Kurt’s shuddering on top of him, collapsing after a minute, his weight familiar and comforting.

“We should, um. Clean up,” Kurt offers after a minute, and Puck nods.

“Yeah. How bad of an idea is it to sleep naked?”

“Hmm.” Kurt lifts one shoulder. “Underwear?”

“Okay,” Puck agrees, and after a few discarded tissues and some awkward fumbling with underwear and sheets, they settle back against each other, Puck resting his head on Kurt’s chest. “Night, blue eyes.”

“Night, baby.” Kurt presses a kiss against Puck’s head, and Puck’s eyes close. “Sleep.”

 

For once on a Friday morning, Puck and Kurt aren’t the first people to arrive at Starbucks, but Finn’s with them, too, bleary–eyed and grumbling about something. Puck isn’t really sure what, but he and Kurt nod and make the appropriate noises periodically, which seems to be all Finn really needs.

Santana and Brittany are already there, and Sam and Mercedes are standing at the counter, waiting on their orders, which means not even a few minutes before everyone arrives. “Morning,” Sam says to them, smiling slightly, and the three of them return the greeting with small nods.

“Venti,” is all Puck has to say to John, who chuckles.

“Thanks for the extra hours,” John says with a half–grin. “Sure it’s not the way you wanted to get some vacation, though.”

“Not really,” Puck acknowledges with a grimace. “You taking some of my shifts next week, too?”

“Yeah, me and Meghan,” John nods. “See you Sunday, kid.”

“Sunday,” Puck nods and claims his drink, then sinks into the seat next to where Brittany and Santana are curled together.

“Hi Puck. Hi Kurt. Drink some coffee so I can say hi to you, too, Finn,” Brittany says. Finn just grumbles vaguely in her direction in response.

“Good morning, Brittany,” Kurt responds, folding one leg underneath himself and perching on a chair.

The rest of the club trickles in, Tina looking strange without Mike as she sits down next to Mercedes. “Missed you last night, girl,” Mercedes says, looking between Tina, Finn, and Rachel, who’s up at the counter.

“Couldn’t let Mike leave without some last–minute advice,” Tina says cheerfully, then giggles.

“Oh, I bet he liked that advice!” Mercedes laughs, then plows ahead, not lowering her voice. “We were trying to find a good song for Rachel.”

“Oh, I know that I had more fun,” Tina says, more quietly, but still easy to hear.

“Pretty sure everyone was having fun last night,” Finn remarks over the lid of his coffee. “Well, not me.”

Puck takes a sip of his own coffee to hide his grin. Oh well. Finn’s survived hearing worse, and he sounds almost bored with the whole thing.

“Does the dwarf really need _more_ songs?” Santana comments, rolling her eyes.

“She could sing ‘Hi-Ho’,” Brittany suggests. “It’s a good song for dwarves. Does she know how to whistle?”

Puck tries not to laugh, because it shouldn’t be so funny, but it really, truly is.

“I would have called you, boo,” Mercedes addresses Kurt like the other two haven’t spoken, “but it seemed like you made your loyalties clear.”

“Oh, good, instead of ‘Team Jacob’ and ‘Team Edward’, we can have T-shirts made that say ‘Team Finn’ and ‘Team Rachel’!” Kurt exclaims with a false brightness, clapping his hands twice. “Anyway, I was busy with a one–night bribing extravaganza of cholesterol.”

“Why do people always talk about me like I’m not _right here_?” Finn asks, scowling.

Kurt leans over to Finn and exaggeratedly whispers, “Because they’re wearing ‘Team Rachel’ T-shirts,” and Puck snorts, trying really hard not to laugh.

“I’m making them run through the set seventy-three times,” Finn grumbles.

“Can we make more strawberry shortcake instead?” Puck whispers under his breath.

“Dude, you can eat it in _front_ of them,” Finn nods.

“Score!” Puck responds, louder this time.

“Score?” Rachel repeats as she walks over, making a strange face at Finn before sitting primly next to Quinn, of all people.

“I know whose team I’m on,” Quinn says, with a small smile that could be sweet or poisonous, depending on how you look at it.

“We have teams?” Rachel looks utterly confused.

“I suddenly wish I were Mike,” Kurt announces.

“Me, too,” Brittany says, giving Tina an odd, sad smile for some reason.

“Yeah, me too,” Tina agrees, nodding.

“Mike’s a popular guy,” Puck notes, shrugging.

“I wish you were _all_ Mike,” Finn says, staring into his cup of coffee. “Well, most of you.”

Puck can’t help but feel like they should have dragged Finn to the Waffle House instead. “Shit!” he says loudly instead. “Kurt, we forgot about, uh, making up that physics lab.”

“But— Oh, right, right,” Kurt nods. “Finn, I’m sorry, we need to get to school early.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s terrible. Let’s go!” Finn’s out of his seat before he’s even finished talking. “Later,” he tosses back to everyone else.

Puck manages to wait until they’re outside to laugh. “Good grief.”

“Weren’t they?” Kurt shakes his head. “I almost missed what you were doing there.”

“That was awkward,” Finn says. “I’m glad you guys have a lab.”

“Yeah, not really,” Puck answers. “You want Waffle House?”

“Only if I’m buying. I owe you guys!”

 

Someone must have filled Rachel in on the T-shirt idea before English, because she gets a flinty, wounded look as she sits down in her assigned seat. The lecture is just a continuation of the day before, but Puck reluctantly tries to follow it, since he has a feeling he might not get his usual copy of Rachel’s scribblings. She bolts from the room as soon as the bell rings, and Puck pulls his phone out.

_Warning: hurricane berry mayb_

He gets the reply as he’s walking into the choir room.

_Duly noted. There weren’t enough waffles this morning._

_K there are never enough waffles!xx_

Kurt’s got a tiny smirk on his face when he strides in a few moments later, settling almost automatically into the seat on Finn’s right. Finn puts up a fist for a bump, almost automatically, even though he doesn’t usually fistbump Kurt. Kurt returns the bump, looking surprised, and then Finn offers the same fist to Puck. Puck also returns the gesture, then takes a moment then to look around the room, frowning when he sees Rachel engaged in what looks like a very serious discussion with Mr. Schuester.

“This isn’t good,” he can hear Kurt mutter, and he nods.

“You can say that again,” Finn mutters back, shaking his head.

“This?” Kurt says. “Is a fuck shit stack.”

“Totally.”

“All right, everyone,” Schue begins before Kurt can reply. “Before we do our final personal statement songs, Rachel’s asked to perform today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schuester,” Rachel says with a smile and an almost dismissive nod. Finn leans back in his chair with a look of horror on his face, and Puck is tempted to do the same. “Today I’ve prepared a number from one of my very favorite musicals, _Wicked_.”

Puck looks over at Kurt, because if anyone has a clue what Rachel has up her sleeve, it’d be Kurt. He’s the only other one that knows the musical backwards and forwards. What Puck sees isn’t particularly reassuring. Kurt’s eyes are wide and he’s grimacing, visibly trying not to look at Finn or Puck either one. Well, fuck.

_Let him feel no pain  
Let his bones never break  
And however they try  
To destroy him  
Let him never die:  
Let him never die:_

Puck doesn’t really get it at first, and judging by the look on Finn’s face, he doesn’t either. Kurt’s face has settled firmly into the grimace, though, so Puck just waits.

_In a long career of distress  
Every time I could, I tried making good  
And what I made was a mess!_

_No good deed goes unpunished  
No act of charity goes unresented  
No good deed goes unpunished  
That's my new creed  
My road of good intentions  
Led where such roads always lead  
No good deed  
Goes unpunished!_

Finn glaces over at Kurt and whispers something. Kurt shakes his head, like he doesn’t know the answer to whatever question, either. Finn looks over at Puck and mouths _“the fuck?”_ Puck shrugs. Who the hell knows what Rachel is thinking?

_One question haunts and hurts  
Too much, too much to mention:  
Was I really seeking good  
Or just seeking attention?  
Is that all good deeds are  
When looked at with an ice-cold eye?  
If that's all good deeds are  
Maybe that's the reason why_

_No good deed goes unpunished  
All helpful urges should be circumvented  
No good deed goes unpunished  
Sure, I meant well –  
Well, look at what well–meant did_

When Rachel finishes, she stares directly at Finn, her eyes wide and dewy. Puck glances back at Finn, who’s open–mouthed gaping in shock, horror, disbelief, or some combination. Then Puck looks back to Rachel as she starts to speak.

“Finn, I just— I know that perhaps some of my actions were misinterpreted, and—”

“Don’t,” Finn cuts her off, sharply. “Seriously. Don’t.”

“No, Finn, please! I know—”

“No, you don’t. So just. _Don’t_ , ok? Don’t.”

“You have to—”

“Dammit, Rach, do you _ever_ know when to shut up?” Finn snaps. “Just _stop_. You’re just, you’re embarrassing yourself. And me. Just stop.”

“I only want what’s best!”

Finn turns to Puck. “Can you run things without me today if I just walk out of here?” he asks, quietly.

“She’ll follow you,” Puck responds as he nods.

“Better than doing this here,” Finn sighs, and he stands up and stalks out of the room for the second time in two days. As Puck predicted, Rachel follows close on his heels, and they can all hear yelling echoing down the hall, slowly growing more quiet.

“Well,” Mr. Schue says into the silence that follows. “Who wants to present their personal statement first?”

There’s a sort of incredulous silence before Artie rolls forward. “I, uh, guess I could perform,” he offers, and Schue smiles brightly at him.

“Great! Let’s hear it.”

Artie apparently decided to go with the Beatles, because he quickly starts belting out the lyrics to ‘Help’. When he finishes, he wheels back to his spot sedately, and everyone looks back towards the choir room door again, like they’re all waiting. No one appears, though, and like clockwork, ten heads turn back to Schue when he begins to talk again.

“Thank you, Artie! All right, Brittany or Santana?”

“I’ll go,” Santana announces, standing up and going to the front. “The show must go on and all of that.”

_Twenty-five years and my life is still  
Trying to get up that great big hill of hope  
For a destination  
And I realized quickly when I knew I should  
That the world was made up of this brotherhood of man  
For whatever that means_

Puck isn’t sure if this is some kind of angry lesbian song or not. It seems like maybe it could be, but then again, maybe it’s just an angry song. Or a worn–out song.

_And so I wake in the morning  
And I step outside  
And I take a deep breath and I get real high  
And I scream at the top of my lungs  
What's going on?  
And I say, hey hey hey hey  
I said hey, what's going on? _

When the song ends, Santana sits down, and Finn slips back into the room, like he was waiting for her to finish. He looks tired, as if the best plan he could come up with for the weekend would be to lie down in bed and not get up until Monday morning. Kurt reaches over and takes one of Finn’s almost–limp hands in his, and Puck rests his hand on Finn’s shoulder, squeezing it.

“Great, great. Brittany?” Schue seems determined to ignore the other issues simmering in the room.

“Okay, I can sing my song,” Brittany says, but even she looks more sedate than normal.

_They made a statue of us  
And put it on a mountain top_

It’s a… quirky song, Puck decides, though not bad.

_They'll name a city after us  
And later say it's all our fault  
Then they'll give us a talking to  
Then they'll give us a talking to  
’Cause they've got years of experience_

As Brittany finishes, Rachel comes back into the room, tears quietly running down her cheeks, and she sits down quietly into a chair between Quinn and Mercedes.

“So.” Schue frowns and paces at the front of the room. “I’ve decided that it would clearly be a waste of time and effort if I insisted that we start from scratch for a set for Regionals, since obviously there was _some_ time invested in it.”

Puck can feel himself wanting to sneer at Schue, for all of them, for Mike, for Finn. _Some_ time. He shakes his head a little.

“However, I will supervise _all_ rehearsals. And I will continue to give you assignments as I see fit, because I think that the assignments are important for growing your voices and keeping us fresh and spontaneous.”

Schue stops and looks at all of them expectantly, and Puck has the uneasy feeling that he’s actually expecting applause or thanks or something.

“Well, that’s great,” Santana says flatly. “Big of you and all that.”

“He looks the same size,” Brittany stage whispers.

There are a few scattered laughs, and Puck shakes his head. Finn’s clearly not up to doing, well, anything. “Yeah, I think that’s enough for now. Let’s eat lunch,” he announces, and half of them are out the door before Schue can protest.

“You want to have lunch again?” Kurt asks Finn quietly.

Finn nods, and they manage to urge him out of the room and into the parking lot, where he climbs into his usual seat and then sits there looking like a piece of spaghetti. A long, spined piece of spaghetti, but spaghetti nonetheless.

Maybe even pasta isn’t simple.

 

Kurt actually snags one of Burt’s six-packs in the garage and puts three of them in the freezer while they warm up a couple of frozen pizzas, then puts one out for each of them as they sit at the table.

“Hawaiian or barbeque chicken, Finn?”

“One with no plants. I’m never eating plants again. I want animals to have died so I could eat a pizza.”

“Barbecue chicken it is, then,” Kurt decides, exchanging a glance with Puck. “How about some steak or something for dinner?”

“Or bunnies. Bunnies that loved their baby bunnies,” Finn says. “But steak is good, I guess.”

“I think the lip balm you use is tested on bunnies,” Puck says, not having a clue if it is or not, but hey, Finn’s probably not going to check.

“And then I’ll use it and then I’ll write a letter to PETA, and it’ll say ‘Dear PETA, I used products tested on animals today, because my girlfriend is a vegan, and I’m pretty sure I just broke up with her’.” He pauses. “ ‘Love, Finn Hudson’.”

“They’ll be thrilled. Or, you know, really horribly upset. Maybe they’ll send the vegan police.”

“I think they only take real vegans,” Finn says.

“No, to her place. Strip her of her, uh.” Puck stops, because he can’t really think of any awesome powers. “Well, anyway, humiliate her or something. Right?”

“Yeah, that might be pretty good,” Finn muses, but then he goes kind of limp and mopey again. “Crap, guys. I’m pretty sure I just broke up with her.”

“Well.” Kurt settles at the table and takes a bite of pizza, chewing it thoughtfully. “Was that your intent?”

“I didn’t really have any intent or anything. I just sort of did it. It wasn’t, like, planned or whatever.”

“Do you wish you hadn’t?” Puck asks more bluntly.

“Maybe? I don’t know,” Finn confesses. “If I can’t answer that question with a yes, does that mean the answer is no?”

“Um.” Puck shrugs and looks at Kurt, who also shrugs. “Probably?”

“Do you feel… sad?” Kurt ventures. “Or angry or just relieved?”

“I told her… I told her I wish I’d just listened to her in New York.”

“Oh.” Kurt is quiet for a moment, just chewing his pizza and drinking his beer, and Puck doesn’t know the entire story there but he knows enough. “Do you?” Kurt finally says.

“Sometimes. Lately, more than sometimes.”

“So do you want her to think you’ve broken up?” Puck figures the easiest way out of this is to be direct.

“Dude, I don’t even know how to answer that question,” Finn sighs.

“Well, like, do you want to change your Facebook status?” Puck snorts.

“I think so,” Finn says. “I just can’t keep doing this. It’s like I told her in the hall, it can’t be about her all the time, but it _is_ about her all the time, and I just _can’t_ anymore. I don’t _want_ to anymore.”

“Okay,” Kurt says softly, nodding.

“Maybe it’s better this way, right?” Finn asks. “Instead of waiting until summer and college. This is better?”

“I’m not sure there’s a better.” Puck frowns. “But, maybe?” Because it does seem like maybe it’s better now, when there’s other stuff to distract Finn. Not right before they all scatter.

“I hate this month.”

“I agree,” Kurt nods.

“You know what is sort of ridiculous? They keep telling us we have to go to school. We miss school, and it’s like it barely mattered.” Puck shakes his head. “Now I _really_ get senioritis.”

“I think I’m going to go crawl under the sofa and die,” Finn says. “Seems like a good option. I’ll just eat my lunch under there, too.”

“I think you need to finish your pizza and beer first.” Kurt stops. “Oh, dear god, I’ve become a midwestern cliche.”

“I’ll never tell,” Finn promises. “Beer, pizza, sofa floor. Check.”

“The bed is probably more comfortable, dude.”

“I think the sofa makes, like, a _point_ or something.”

“I’ll just call and warn Carole and Dad. ‘Beware: Large Finn in Floor Under Sofa’.”

“We’ll leave you extra blankets,” Puck adds.

“Is there something I should have done different?” Finn asks. “I know you guys are, like, gay, but what should I have done different to have fixed this?”

“If there’s two people, it’s not going to be fixed by just one.” Kurt shrugs a little. “Truthfully, Finn, you’re just, uh.” He stops. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. You’re just too mature for her.”

“I only had one beer, right?”

Puck laughs. “Yeah, just one.”

“Kurt only had one, too, right?”

“Still just one,” Puck confirms.

“Just checking, dude, because I think I just heard Kurt say I was too mature for someone,” Finn says.

“Well, I didn’t say you were more mature than, say, _me_ ,” Kurt points out. “But I did.” Kurt looks a little puzzled, himself.

“One for the history books or whatever, I guess.”

“I’ll mark the calendar,” Puck offers.

“ _Are_ we taking you back to school?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah, I guess so, only with one of those cravats.”

“A cravat?” Kurt looks excited for just a moment before he shakes his head. “Oh, you mean a caveat.”

“Yeah, those things you tack on to other things, like extra rules or whatever. The _caveat_ is that I’m drinking another beer first. And I’m changing my shirt, so help me pick out a really _nice_ one. In, like, my best color.”

“All right,” Kurt agrees, looking wry as he stands and gets a second beer, handing it to Finn. “Puck, you want another one? I shouldn’t.”

“Sure.” Puck shrugs and takes the offered bottle. “It should make statistical applications more interesting.”

“While you pick me out a shirt, I’m gonna change my Facebook status, I guess,” Finn says. “May as well make it official.”

 

Statistical applications _is_ more interesting. Puck does swivel in his seat when the door creaks open a few moments later and starts a little when he sees Karofsky. Huh. As soon as class ends, though, Karofsky bolts out the door, so Puck just shrugs and goes to his piano class, considerably less buzzed.

When he and Kurt get back to McKinley for afternoon rehearsal, the final bell hasn’t yet rung, so they head into the auditorium with Tina. Shortly after the bell, Finn comes jogging in, still wearing the blue button up over blue tee combo that Kurt picked out for him, looking resolved but not nearly as grim as earlier.

Sam and Brittany arrive at the same time, closely followed by Santana, and then no one else shows up. “Weird,” Puck mutters, and Kurt nods. On the other hand, at least Rachel isn’t one of the people in there with them.

“Okay, man?” Sam half–mutters to Finn, looking a little askance at Tina. Puck can’t help but think the lines were awkwardly drawn at Starbucks, with Tina planting herself as Switzerland or something, but maybe not. Puck doesn’t particularly care. Eventually it won’t be a huge deal.

Eventually.

“Yeah, I’m a’ight,” Finn mutters back, shrugging.

“I think you should be throwing yourself a party, really,” Santana says, sounding bored. “Also, I have to admit, I’m impressed with your cojones. Making it official on Facebook within the hour? Nice.”

Tina looks startled at that declaration, as does Sam, but Brittany nods like she already knows.

“I think it was the beer.” Kurt looks as if this is a perfectly normal statement to come out of his mouth.

Finn nods. “Possibly.”

“Beer?” Sam asks.

“What? We had lunch,” Finn says, defensively. “I had a beer with lunch. Maybe two. Maybe the rest of Puck’s second one.”

“So that’s what happened to it. I didn’t think I’d finished it.”

“That’s pretty freaking hilarious,” Santana declares. “But where are the rest of us losers?”

“Good question.” Tina frowns. “It’s been almost ten minutes since the bell.”

“I think someone is angry about the hallway,” Brittany says. “I hear angry.”

They all stop, then, to listen, and Puck hears what Brittany means – there’s definitely the sound of raised voices outside the auditorium.

“I think that’s ’Cedes,” Sam says quietly after one outburst, and then there’s an answering, deeper voice.

“And that’s Schue,” Puck comments, sighing. “Great.”

“Busted!” Finn snickers to himself. “Oops.”

“Shall we go join in?” Santana asks sardonically. “I’d hate to miss an opportunity.”

“Oh, let’s,” Kurt agrees, smirking wickedly, and Puck almost feels sorry for Schue, but not quite.

“Let’s do this thing!” Finn says, heading up the auditorium stairs ahead of everyone. “I kinda want to watch Kurt and Santana make somebody cry.”

Puck chuckles and they head up the stairs, the voices getting louder as they approach the door. Kurt and Santana push their way to the front and exchange a glance as they each reach for one of the double doors. “Ready?” Santana asks.

“Oh, most definitely,” Kurt nods, and they swing the doors open simultaneously.

Schue is in the middle of some kind of rant about – well, it’s hard to tell, really, though there’s a lot about ‘responsibility’ and ‘authority’ and ‘unauthorized behaviors’ in it. The point is, he doesn’t notice the doors open behind him, even though Puck can watch as the others take in their sudden appearance.

“Was there a problem here?” Kurt asks sweetly.

“We were trying to head to rehearsal, but Mr. Schue stopped us and expressed some concerns about our schedule,” Artie explains. “Like how it exists at all.”

“Oh?” Kurt tilts his head and looks at Schue. “You don’t think it’s appropriate for a glee club to rehearse, two weeks before a major competition?”

Puck startles for a moment, because hell, how did it get to be just two weeks away? Other than everything else that’s been happening. He shakes his head a little.

“Of course an appropriate number of _supervised_ rehearsals is to be expected. But this isn’t a supervised rehearsal, and I don’t see why our typical schedule isn’t adequate.”

“Because it’s not enough time or work for us to really be ready?” Finn suggests, though he looks more amused than angry. “Oh, also, because Mike is a lot better at choreography than anybody else.”

“I’m not sure why we need supervision,” Santana asks. “ ’Cause half of us are eighteen, and the rest are seventeen – barely, in some cases.” She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, we’re not going to burn down the auditorium.”

“It’s not a matter of your ages or whether or not you might… burn down the auditorium,” Schue repeats, looking almost mystified. “It’s about this being a school activity, with a faculty sponsor.”

“Great. You’ve sponsored us. That doesn’t require you to do anything than make us a legitimate school activity,” Kurt snaps. “If we want to put in extra rehearsal, why do you even _care_?”

Schue looks stunned for a long moment. “But I’m the director of the club! The leader, if you will.”

“Finn’s the leader,” Brittany says. “We voted.”

Schue splutters. “I… But… I…”

“Look.” Kurt’s gaze is hard. “We don’t want you to not be our sponsor. But we do want to rehearse. We want to win. That’s it. Frankly, none of us understand why you’re impeding us.”

“I’m not impeding anything!” Schue protests immediately. “And of course you want to win, but—”

“But what?” Finn asks, mildly. “Practicing more is kinda important if we want to win.”

“Sometimes burnt out can happen,” Schue says, almost like he’s explaining something to a toddler. “Practicing too much can make you, you know, too robotic and not loose enough.”

“Dude, have you _met_ us? Robotic is kinda not our problem.” Finn shakes his head.

“Regardless, unauthorized practices should not be occurring on school property after school hours!”

“Okay, then. I guess we’ll leave school property,” Puck muses.

“You can’t rehearse for school events off school property!”

“Oh, sorry, did I say rehearse?” Puck smiles in his best dumb manner.

“We totally meant to say get together to dance and hangout,” Finn grins. “We love hanging out together, all of us. With music and dancing.”

“Yes, we do all sorts of dancing. Did you know that Finn can’t lift Puck?” Kurt’s smile now looks angelic.

“It’s true. I tried. I failed. It hurt!”

Schue just stands there, looking confused, and Puck decides that’s their cue to exit. He slides past Schue, Kurt following him, and gradually they all get past him and head outside with the others.

“Well, I suggest that we take this opportunity to—” Rachel begins.

“Go get our nails done!” Quinn interjects, brightly. “You’re totally right, Rachel. Great idea! Mercedes, Tina, you’re in, right? Santana? Do you and Britt want to come with us?”

Puck looks over at the five guys. “This totally means we have to go get _our_ hair done, right? Except.”

Artie laughs. “It’s true that some of us do have more hair than others. You could get something waxed, I guess.”

“Hey!” Puck’s hands fly protectively to his groin. “Watch it.”

Finn laughs out loud. “Always your first thought, dude.”

“They actually wax…” Sam looks faintly disturbed. When Puck looks over at Kurt, though, he looks almost intrigued. Finn gives both of them a strange look, shaking his head.

“Okay, no hair services for the guys today,” Puck frowns.

“We’ll have to settle for, uh.” Sam pauses. “Beer?”

“Already… uh, how about pizza instead?” Finn suggests.

“Midwestern cliche,” Kurt repeats, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

“Girls, let’s split into two cars and meet at Yellow Tuesdays,” Quinn says, hooking her arms with Santana and Brittany’s.

Tina, Rachel, and Mercedes follow, Mercedes waving at Sam before climbing into Tina’s car. Sam blinks as he returns the wave, like he’s still not sure what just happened.

“So, waxing, huh?” Finn asks.

 

“You looked intrigued earlier,” Puck points out after dinner, when he decides that if he’s going to bother to go to services, he probably should change out of the T-shirt he’s been wearing all day.

“Oh?” Kurt doesn’t look up from his perusal of whatever magazine he’s reading. Puck grins and plops down beside him when he notices Kurt’s cheeks turning just slightly pink.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I had not previously considered the idea. That’s all.”

“But,” Puck prompts, because it wasn’t just inquisitiveness on Kurt’s face when Artie made the comment and Puck responded.

“But.” Kurt finally puts down the magazine and meets Puck’s eyes. “I don’t think I’d be… averse to the idea.”

Puck can’t help but wince a little, but he has to concede that Kurt generally has good ideas. He purses his lips and shrugs. “Okay. Duly noted.”

“Duly noted?”

“As in, I make no promises, but I didn’t say _no_.” Puck grins. “And now I’m going to go try and fail to make the yarmulke stay on my head without, like, glue.”

“I would advise skipping glue, yes.” Kurt suppresses a laugh. “You need fashion tape.”

“Fashion tape?”

“Like girls use to hold up their strapless dresses.”

“I’ll just let it fall off periodically.”

“I thought you might prefer that, yes.” Kurt grins. “I’ll see you in a little while, baby. Be good.”

“I’m always good.”

 

Going to Friday night services is weird, because it’s mostly a totally different group of people than on Saturday mornings, with the exception of a few of the older people. And, apparently, his Nana, who greets him loudly.

“Noah! What a surprise!” She grabs Puck and plants a kiss on each cheek. “You look so skinny! Has my daughter not been feeding you?” She shakes her head. “And your yarmulke is falling off.”

“Hi, Nana. No, I’m fine, I just had the flu.” Puck grimaces and slaps the damn thing back onto his head. “And I know. There’s nothing really to attach it to.”

“Hmph. You should have thought of that before you cut all your hair off. I love your curls, you should let your hair grow out again. So cute.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I show my friends your elementary school pictures. At least you got rid of that landing strip.”

“Nana,” Puck groans, shaking his head. “I look like a dork in those pictures!”

“Nonsense! You look very handsome!” Nana threads her arm through Puck’s, and he wonders absently if this is something they teach all Jewish women or something, how to make a boy escort them without the boy ever offering. “Come sit with me! Your mother and your sister aren’t here?”

“No, Nana, just me. I…” Puck shrugs. “I have other plans tomorrow but I just…”

“Just wanted to come to services with your Nana?” Nana fills in for him. “Such a good boy, Noah. You should let me take you and your goyfriend to dinner one day.” She cackles. “Next week?”

“I have my auditions in New York next week,” Puck quickly replies. “And we have our big show choir thing the next week. Maybe the week after that?”

“All right, all right, but I am not going to let you put me off.” And, in fact, as soon as they sit down, Nana whips out an iPhone of her own and pulls up her calendar. “Come on, Noah, look at your own calendar!”

“Okay, okay,” Puck complies.

“Now. How about the sixteenth. Bring your Kurt with you to services and we’ll go eat dinner afterwards.”

“Um. I don’t think that’ll work.” Puck can’t really imagine Kurt voluntarily attending any religious service, much less one that involves putting on a tiny circular hat. “What if we went to lunch or dinner on the eighteenth?”

“The eighteenth. Hmm. Well, I have Knitzvahs that night, but I could do lunch.”

“Knitzvahs?” Puck repeats.

“My knitting club. We drink wine and knit blankets for preemies and kvetch. The kvetching is a very important part of the Knitzvahs.”

“Okay.” Puck shrugs. “I get off work at two. You want us to meet you at 2:30?”

“Perfect!” Nana beams at him, enters it into her calendar, and then picks up the sliding yarmulke and slaps it back onto his head. Possibly with more force than necessary, in Puck’s opinion, but he doesn’t say anything, just grumbles as the service starts.

“See? Isn’t that a nice way to start your weekend?” Nana says, more quietly, as the service ends. “Are you staying to eat?”

Free food is tempting, but between lunch, mid-afternoon pizza, and dinner, Puck’s not really all that hungry, and he shakes his head. “I think I’m going to head back.”

“All right.” Nana sighs and shakes her head. “You should come on Friday nights more often, boychick. Make your Nana happy.”

“All right, all right,” Puck agrees, happily sticking the yarmulke into his pocket. “It was good to see you, Nana.”

“Of course it was!” Nana repeats her actions when she greeted him, kissing him once on each cheek. “Have fun in the city, Noah, and do well.”

“I will, Nana,” he assures her.

“See that you do!”

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Finn’s not sure exactly how it was supposed to be, but he knows _this_ isn’t it. He never believed in that whole ‘bad things come in threes’ thing, but he can’t deny that’s exactly what’s happened, one bad thing after another, a fuck shit stack of bad things. At what point are things going to start getting any better?

It’s not like the week wasn’t bad enough as it was, then Rachel had to come back and just… be _Rachel_. Couldn’t take a minute to think about how any of this affected anybody else. It’s the fucking Rachel Show, twenty-four hours a day, and he kinda already knew that, but never realized until this week just how much it always, always has to be about her. He’d always had this idea of Rachel in his head, the Rachel he thought she might be, but now Finn realizes that Rachel doesn’t really exist at all. The real Rachel is the one who cares more about solos and auditions than about actual people.

Finn feels like maybe he’s just been an accessory all year, not a boyfriend. He was something to go with her shoes. Fashionable Rachel: now with matching boyfriend! Come to think of it, it’s the same shit as with Quinn, just wrapped in a different package, slightly different motivation, but always about how it looks or what he does or what he _should_ do. It’s never about who he is or what he wants. It’s never really about him at all, is it? It’s not about them loving _him_ or wanting _him_ , just the idea of him.

Finn is so tired of being the idea of something. He’s tired of having to be everything for everybody else, and not ending up with anything for himself. The only people who seem fine with Finn just being whoever the hell he is, at least most of the time, are Puck and Kurt, and they’ll be gone soon, too, and then what will Finn have?

 

Puck decides that even though he didn’t stay to eat, doughnuts sound like an excellent idea for the next morning, so he goes by Pat’s before heading back to Kurt’s. He figures that if he slides them into the oven, Finn won’t find them before the morning, and between Puck and Kurt, one of them will be up before Burt or Carole could accidentally preheat them.

He just manages to close the oven and move over to the refrigerator when Finn walks into the kitchen. When he notices Puck, he startles, like he wasn’t expecting to find anyone there.

“Oh, hey,” Finn says, blinking. “I thought you were upstairs.”

Puck snorts. “I haven’t even been here for the last, I dunno. Hour and a half?”

“Huh. Guess I sorta spaced out. Where’d you go?”

“To be accosted by my Nana, apparently.” Puck shakes his head. “No, I went to Temple. Just–you know.” He shrugs.

“That’s weird. I didn’t know you went at night,” Finn says, looking puzzled. “Did you tell her hey for me?”

“She was too busy slapping me in the head,” Puck grumbles. “And it’s like, Friday night or Saturday morning. Most people don’t go to both.”

“What’d you do to make her slap you?”

“Not having any hair.” Puck shakes his head. “Apparently she’s still showing people pictures of me from fifth grade.”

“You were goofy looking in fifth grade, dude. Your teeth were, like, _huge_.”

“Thanks.” Puck rolls his eyes and opens the fridge. “Pop?”

“Sure, unless there’s another beer in there. _Kidding_ , by the way.”

“Yeah you are, because if you want a beer, you get it yourself and _you_ get in trouble with Burt,” Puck points out, grabbing two pops and handing one to Finn.

“Nobody wants that, dude,” Finn says.

“Exactly.” Puck opens the can and takes a long sip. “All right?”

Finn shrugs. “I’m not falling apart or anything. Mostly not.”

“Well, that’s… good, I guess? That you aren’t falling apart.” Puck shrugs. “Just don’t do something stupid on the rebound.”

“Like what, dude? I think most of the stupid ships have already sailed. Anyway, it feels kinda like, I dunno, small by comparison?” Finn says.

“Okay, some _one_ stupid.”

“Well, I’ll do my best.”

Puck snickers. “Don’t stumble into it, either.”

“I am kind of clumsy that way, dude,” Finn says, with a shrug.

“We’ll keep an eye out for you, man.”

 

Puck and Kurt head down 75 towards Dayton after a few cups of coffee and some doughnuts, leaving Finn with a plate of doughnuts in his bedroom. There aren’t many people at the center when they first get there, though April is, and she corners them, chatting a mile a minute about Regionals, Cleveland, and when are they ever going to announce the venue?

After awhile, Puck slumps over, head on Kurt’s shoulder, writing absently in his notebook and wishing he’d brought his guitar with him or something.

“Ooh, Libby’s giving some newbies a tour,” April suddenly changes the subject. “I love newbies! You two were newbies once, and look how well that turned out!”

“Stunningly,” Kurt agrees. “How many newbies?”

April peers over the top of the couch. “Three!” She rubs her hands together. “It’s been weeks since we had newbies! There’s two larger guys and a tiny one, ooh, he looks terrible.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to put down people’s fashion in here,” Puck says absently. “One of those safe space rules.”

“It’s true,” Kurt nods. “We’re not.”

“Not everyone has a Kurt.”

“Oh, you two, stop it, not his _clothes_ , good lord.” She rolls her eyes and then springs up. “Libby! Bring the newbies over here!”

“All right, all right,” Libby answers. “Hold your skirts, girl.”

“Up high?” April asks with a grin. “Hi, newbies! I’m April.”

“And she likes to lift her skirt up for appreciative female audiences,” Kurt says drolly.

“Hi Kurt.” The voice is familiar – less enthusiastic than usual, but very familiar.

“You know Kurt?” April demands. “Kurt, do you have some kind of special queer power?”

“No, actually I have abysmal gaydar,” Kurt answers, turning his head. “Casey.” There’s a pause. “David.” Then another pause, and Kurt’s voice is more surprised, a little edge to it. “Brown.” Kurt reaches his hand out, almost unconsciously, and wraps his arm around Puck’s shoulders.

Oh, great. Puck shakes his head. Of all the people to show up there. He can’t help but feel a little resentful, but then he feels guilty for feeling resentful. And Brown. Seriously.

“Hey, Kurt,” Brown says, and he even _sounds_ like he’s smirking. “Me and Karofsky thought it might be nice for Casey to get out and— well, holy shit, Puckerman!” Brown rounds the corner of the sofa, and Puck was definitely right about the smirk. “Puckerman. And Kurt.” Brown looks from Puck to Kurt. “Oh. Ohh, man. Okay, I get it now. Shit! Sorry. I had no idea.”

“Well.” Puck straightens, Kurt’s hand trailing down his back. “So much for that.”

“Hey Puck,” Casey says, softly. He looks apologetic and mildly embarrassed. “We, um.”

“Hey, Casey.” Puck smiles slightly. “It’s cool.”

“We should, um. Hey, David, maybe we should just.” Casey takes a step backwards, which means he backs straight into Karofsky, who puts one hand up on Casey’s shoulder.

“Take a seat. I promise April’s not as scary as she seems,” Kurt comments.

“I am too!”

“She’s not,” Puck agrees. “Definitely not.”

Karofsky steers Casey towards another couch and sits them both down, Casey leaning in towards Karofsky a little and looking at Kurt and Puck with wide eyes. Brown sprawls across an overstuffed chair next to them, with an enigmatic expression on his face. Karofsky and Brown exchange some kind of look, glance over at Casey, and then exchange another look.

“So, you come here often?” Brown asks, and Karofsky gives him _another_ look, only this one’s clearly implying Brown should shut up already.

Puck wants to roll his eyes, because this is getting ridiculous. Instead he slumps back against Kurt and sets his notebook down. Kurt’s arm wraps back around him and he figures that clearly, that ship has sailed. “When we can,” Kurt answers Brown, his tone still a little frosty.

“That’s cool,” Brown says. “Sheepdog here thought we should get the lamb out of the barn for a little while.”

Puck snorts at the look on Karofsky’s face at being called ‘Sheepdog’. “It’s a good idea,” Kurt acknowledges, though he looks at Karofsky and not Brown as he replies.

“We didn’t realize that we’d know anybody here,” Karofsky says, and it’s clear he’s offering it as an apology of some sort.

“Yes, well, we do tend to keep it quiet,” Kurt agrees. “Though the rest of the glee club has met April.” He turns to look at April, who’s been quietly backing away. “April’s in Aural Intensity and we’re going to kick their asses in two weeks,” Kurt adds cheerfully.

“It’s cool, man,” Brown says. “PFLAG rules still apply.”

Puck looks at him hesitantly, because seriously, Puck still isn’t sure he trusts him, but he nods anyway. “Yeah. So this is totally awkward.” He figures one of them has to call it.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Casey squeaks from beside Karofsky. “We really didn’t know.”

“Well, you knew,” Puck points out wryly. “But you didn’t know we’d be here.”

“Cherry, you knew about this?” Miles says to Casey, but Casey just shrugs.

“PFLAG rules?” Casey offers.

“He’s known longer than Rachel, actually,” Kurt muses.

Karofsky frowns a little when Miles calls Casey ‘cherry’, then shakes his head. “So, uh, this, it’s a good place?”

“Yeah, ’cause, we didn’t really plan this out too much ahead of time or anything,” Brown adds. “We just sort of decided yesterday.”

“It is,” Kurt agrees. “It’s um. Apparently really great if you’re looking just to hook up with someone for a time or two. April can tell you more about that. But it’s also just…” Kurt shrugs.

“Safe,” Puck offers.

“That’s good,” Karofsky nods. “Yeah, that’s good.”

“They have cookies,” Casey says, with an expression like he’s desperately trying to come up with something to say. “On the table. I saw them. Chocolate chip, I think.”

“We picked them up at the Kroger!” April interjects brightly, sounded relieved that she can speak about something. “Have one! Or more. No one minds if you overindulge here.” She winks at Casey and then turns and winks at Brown, too.

“Overindulgence is a perfectly valid lifestyle,” Brown responds, drolly.

Karofsky snorts. “Yeah, you’d think so.” His lips twitch a little, though, indicating some amusement.

“Miles might like to eat _all_ the cookies,” Casey says, his voice very serious, but also clearly aware of the innuendo in his statement.

Kurt laughs for just a moment. “I’m sure he would.”

“Okay, Puckerman!” April plops down beside him. “Who are these people?”

Before Puck can answer, Brown plasters on a trolling–for–sex grin, and says, smoothly, “I’m Miles Brown. Little cute one’s Casey. Bear–in–training’s Dave Karofsky.”

Karofsky rolls his eyes. “Funny, Brown.”

“I’m a funny guy.”

“They go to McKinley with us,” Puck fills in. “PFLAG. Karofsky’s headed to Georgia Tech on a football scholarship and Brown just pervs on my ass.” Puck snorts. “Much to Kurt’s displeasure.”

“Hey now!” Brown protests. “I had no idea about Kurt. I’d never perv on another guy’s boy on purpose. I’ve got _some_ self control.” He looks comically wounded, hand to his heart.

“Drama queens,” Puck mutters, shaking his head.

“This is great!” April laughs. “I need this kind of drama at school! Instead it’s just about solos and who broke up with who.”

“Oh, we covered the latter yesterday,” Kurt snorts.

“Who broke up?” Casey pipes up, looking very concerned. “It wasn’t Santana and Brittany, was it?”

April raises her eyebrows. “Oooh. Was it?”

“No, April,” Kurt says calmly. “Sorry, Santana and Brittany are still together. No, Finn and Rachel broke up.”

“Really? I thought Berry’d wait until the end of the summer.” Karofsky shrugs.

“Oh _no_! That’s so sad! Is Finn okay?” Casey asks.

“He seemed better when we left him this morning,” Puck offers with a casual shrug.

“So he did,” Kurt agrees, nodding. “Maybe it was the doughnuts.”

“Not sure that just the doughnuts were enough,” Puck laughs.

“We’re very good at cheering people up.”

“Oh, well I’m glad you made him feel better,” Casey says. “Poor Finn. Did his cough ever get better?”

“I think the antibiotics finally kicked in, yes,” Kurt nods. “He definitely had it worse than we did.”

If it’s possible, Casey’s face falls even more. “Oh. Oh, I’m really sorry. That, um.” He leans, possibly unconsciously, closer to Karofsky, and also seems to shrink back into the large, fluffy cushions on the back of the sofa. “Thank you for the candy.”

“No trouble,” Kurt assures him. “The hardest part was figuring out whether you’d rather have peanut butter cups or caramel.”

“No, he liked the ring pop.”

“Yeah he did,” Brown says, cutting a look over at Karofsky.

“Nah, I bought him more.”

“Oh, I just bet you did,” Brown answers, raising his eyebrow and shaking his head. “I just bet. Wonder why that was.”

“Oh shut up,” Karofsky shoots back at Brown, literally over Casey’s head, but there’s no heat behind it. Puck isn’t sure what’s going on, but he figures it doesn’t particularly matter, either.

“I’m sorry this is all so weird,” Casey finally says.

“Stop apologizing,” Karofsky says, shaking his head. “Really, Case. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Trust me, Brown’s weirding me out way more than you could,” Puck points out.

“I’m a weird guy,” Brown says, affably.

“To quote Artie, ‘Preach’.”

Brown grins. “So, what was that you were saying about this place being great for hook–ups?”


	5. Piggly-Wiggly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fixing the books, cattle ranch in a bowl, Driving Miles Brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with us on this little journey and for loving Casey as much as Dave does.

Casey’s curled into a small ball in the middle of David’s bed, reading _Dune_ , which, once he got past the idea of the stillsuits recycling all the sweat and pee and everything, he’s really enjoying. He hasn’t had something new to read in a while, at least, not something that didn’t come from school or the admittedly thin selection at the public library. David has a lot of books and now that they’re all in order, Casey thinks he might just start at the beginning and read his way through, after he finishes _Dune_.

“Hey,” David says from the doorway, and Casey makes a little yelp of surprise, instinctively scooting himself across the bed until his back’s against the headboard. “Hey! Sorry! I thought you’d heard me plunking up the stairs.”

“I had a book,” Casey says, forcing himself to unflatten his body from against the headboard. “Sometimes I don’t. Um. Notice stuff.”

“Yeah?” David looks at the book curiously. “Oh, yeah, cool, _Dune_. Good book. You read it before?”

Casey shakes his head. “Wanted to, but never got a chance. I have, you know, time. Lots of time, now.” He sets the book down on the middle of David’s bed. “It’s okay? That I’m in here?”

“Sure.” David shrugs. “You’ve probably read all of your own books by now. You didn’t get too bored? Dad said he left some soup in the refrigerator for lunch.”

“Oh. I think I forgot about lunch time,” Casey admits. “Book. Well, lots of books. I, um. Fixed your books. I hope that’s okay.” He gestures at David’s bookshelves, where the books are now alphabetized by author and then organized by series. It really didn’t take that long to do, once Casey got started, and now the books look so much happier, but maybe David didn’t want his books fixed.

“Fixed them?” David looks blank. “They were broken?”

“I put them in order,” Casey says. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have moved your books. I’m sorry, David, if you remember how they were before, I can put them back how they were. Before. Before I fixed them. Moved them, I mean. I’m sorry!”

“I just put ’em back wherever,” David admits, shrugging. “Who knows how they were in there. It’s cool. Let’s go get you some of that soup, though.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. I was, um. I might take this book back over to my room. You probably have school work, you missed a lot of school.” Casey slides off the side of David’s bed in the direction of the door.

“Soup,” David says firmly, gesturing towards the stairs. “You can’t skip an entire meal, Case.”

“I didn’t skip it. I just. Um.”

“Soup. Can’t you hear it calling you? ‘Casey. Casey. Eat me, I’m delicious soup’. See?”

Casey giggles. “I don’t think you’re suppose to eat stuff that talks. That’s one of the rules in Narnia, I think.”

“What about all those peanuts you’ve slaughtered?” David steers them down the stairs.

“They didn’t talk. Well, they screamed for mercy, but I don’t speak peanut, so I didn’t pay attention,” Casey says. “I, uh. I borrowed your sweater. Is that okay, that I borrowed it?”

“Sure.” David shrugs and rummages in the refrigerator. “Here it is.” He sets out a huge pot of thick chili, beans and meat.

“I don’t think that’s soup, David,” Casey says, staring at the chili, which looks more like meatloaf with some beans sprinkled on top more than it resembles what Casey would call soup. “I think there’s, is that maybe a bison in there? A whole one?”

“Nah, only a quarter of a cow,” David cracks, grinning. “Now. Regular size bowl, or extra–hungry bowl?”

“Is there a small bowl? Maybe I could use a coffee cup.” In the roughly twenty-four hours Casey’s been at David’s house, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen a small bowl or any other small dish, come to think of it.

“We only have three coffee mugs.” David points to the three large mugs drying in the rack.

“I can wash it out after. I don’t mind if my coffee tastes like chili,” Casey insists. “Those bowls are really big. I could sail somewhere in one. There’d be room for my stuff, even.”

“Perfect!” David takes the ‘regular’ sized bowl and fills it with chili before sticking it into the microwave. “See, it’s like lunch and a snack, all at once.” To emphasize his point, maybe, he pulls out another bowl and fills it half-full.

“I think maybe we have different definitions of lunches and snacks,” Casey says. “I think my lunch is like your snack. You need more food than me. I don’t need that much. That is… much.”

“I think you need to eat more.” David shrugs. The microwave dings and David puts the bowl in front of Casey, along with a spoon. “Eat.”

“I _do_ eat more,” Casey protests, but he picks up the spoon anyway and takes a few bites of the chili. It’s good, not too spicy, but it’s also very meaty and Casey’s sure there’s no way he is eating that entire bowl. Or half of that bowl.

“So,” David says, as he warms his own bowl. “Brown and Rick are coming over. Later. This afternoon, I mean.”

“Um,” is all Casey says. He eats another bite of his chili and chews very slowly. David’s tone makes it pretty clear that he’s already guessed Casey wouldn’t be wild about the idea, but maybe Casey can just hide in his room until they go. “Tell them hi?” he tries.

“To see you,” David says, raising one eyebrow and retrieving his chili. “I tried to put ’em off, but you know how Brown is.”

“Yes. He is that way. That way that he is,” Casey says. “Maybe, um. Tomorrow instead. Or Sunday.”

“But, you know, it’s not the worst idea,” David continues. “It’s just Brown and Rick. They’re a little loud and a little dumb, but mostly harmless.”

Casey pokes at his chili with his spoon. It is nice chili, but he’s really not at all hungry. “I don’t know what to say to them.”

“You’ve met Brown, right? You don’t have to say anything sometimes.”

“But David,” Casey says, softly. “I look really awful. I feel like they’re gonna stare at me or. I don’t know. I just feel really dumb.”

“Case.” David sighs. “I’m not gonna say I know, ’cause I don’t. But I know that – well, I think they just want to see you. Okay?”

“Do they know? All the, um. Stuff?”

“All?” David shakes his head. “No.”

“But they know about. The…” Casey searches for the right word, a word that means something to David without meaning _all_ the somethings, and really, there’s no word for that. He doesn’t really like Dr. Naser’s word for it, but he and David don’t have one they use. Maybe it’s not a thing that gets a word.

“They know about Monday. That’s all.”

If ‘Monday’ is David’s word, that’s just fine by Casey. “Okay. Monday.” He nods his head a few times. “I should put on clothes. Other clothes. That are me–sized, I think. And don’t involve pajamas for any part of them.”

“After you finish that soup,” David grins.

“I can’t eat any more,” Casey says. “And it’s not soup. It’s a whole cattle ranch.”

David shakes his head. “Fine. Come back and eat more after you change, then.”

“Maybe?” Casey says, pushing his chair back from the table. “I might be hungry again after. Changing clothes, that’s a workout right there.” Actually, with the broken rib, it is more of a challenge than normal, but short of exclusively wearing clothes that button or zip up the front, Casey’s just going to be stuck with uncomfortable clothing changes for a little while.

He walks up the stairs and into his new room, which still feels very weird if Casey thinks about it too hard. He’s not thinking too hard about much of it yet, and nobody’s really talking about timelines or what any of this means, and Casey’s afraid to ask too many questions. He opens the drawers and looks at the clothes inside. Most of them aren’t his clothes. They’re clothes his size. They’re clothes intended for him. They aren’t really _his_. Most of his stuff made it, almost magically it still feels, from Casey’s house to David’s, but some things didn’t seem to make the transition.

Casey pulls on a plain green T-shirt, trades his pajama pants for a pair of jeans, and pokes at some sweaters and a flannel shirt, not really thinking about what he’s looking for, just knowing he can’t find it. He grabs a grey zip-up fleece thing he didn’t own before he came to David’s house yesterday, and, because it’s on the little nightstand next to his bed and it’ll give him something to do other than talk and get stared at, the last ring pop from the ones David bought for him.

When Casey heads back into the hallway and down the stairs, he hears voices in the kitchen. He walks as slowly and quietly as possible to still be making downward progress on the steps, but eventually, he reaches the bottom of the steps. David, Miles, and Rick are all standing in the kitchen, and Casey has a sudden flashback to that scene in _Fellowship of the Ring_ when Frodo is surrounded by all the elves and humans at the council. He feels small. Also, like a ring of invisibility wouldn’t be unappreciated.

“More cattle ranch in a bowl?” David asks, smiling slightly.

“Um. Hi Miles. Hi Rick,” Casey says, with a little waggle of his fingers he hopes will pass for a polite wave. “No more cattle ranch. I have candy.” He holds up the ring pop.

“Case.” David shakes his head. “Cattle ranch after candy, then.”

“You’re turning down Karofsky chili? Damn.” Miles shakes his head. “Is it as good as he’s always bragged it is?”

“It’s very nice chili,” Casey says, unwrapping his ring pop. Miles seems to pointedly _not_ be staring, so maybe David said something, but Rick looks like someone whacked him on the back of the head with a two by four and he forgot how to close his mouth after.

“Your face looks _awful_ ,” Rick blurts out. “Does it hurt?” Miles reaches over and whacks Rick solidly in the back of the head without saying a word. “Ow, hey!”

“Dumb ass, what’d I tell you about your feet and your mouth?”

“What, dude? I don’t know what else to say, alright?” Rick rubs the back of his head. “Sorry, Casey. But really. Your face. Does it hurt?”

Casey shrugs a little. “Yeah. Not as much as it did. It’s a little better.”

“Well, that’s good,” Rick says, nodding his head. “That it’s doing better.”

“So I was thinking about getting away from Lima, man,” Miles says to David. “Tomorrow, we’ll have to leave Rick here, but he’ll survive, there’s an alphabet soup center down in Dayton.”

“Yeah, one of the doctors mentioned it,” David nods. “Remember, Case?”

Casey nods. Dr. Naser, specifically, and she more than mentioned it. She strongly encouraged Casey and David take a trip out there in the near future so that Casey can develop a ‘better support structure’ or something like that. He’s not talking about his psychiatrist unless David does, though, so he just nods again, and sticks the ring pop in his mouth to have an excuse not to say anything else.

“There’s a whole center? Like PFLAG with its own building?” Rick asks. “How come nobody ever talks about that at the meetings?”

Miles shrugs. “Maybe nobody knows about it. Website looked kinda cool, though. Bright colors, ouch!”

“All kinds of rainbows?” Rick asks.

“Pastel rainbows, regular rainbows, fluorescent rainbows,” Miles agrees, nodding. “Nah, not really. Just neon everywhere.”

Casey absently pops the ring pop out of his mouth and twists it around his thumb a little, watching Miles and Rick have what doesn’t sound at all like their first conversation about rainbows.

“Ring pops, huh?” Miles grins and shakes his head. “Who’d a thought, little Cherry.”

Casey blinks at Miles. “Yeah. I like the red ones. Is that, um. Is that bad?”

“Cherry for Cherry.” Miles beams. “Foots, don’t say a word.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Brown,” Rick says.

Casey feels his cheeks heat up, even though he’s not entirely sure _why_. He glances over at David. David shrugs kind of helplessly, like he can’t really do anything, and neither can Casey, because, well, it’s Brown. It doesn’t actually make Casey’s face feel any cooler.

“So, you two in?” Miles continues. “Tomorrow?”

Casey looks at David again. “Sounds like it might be a good idea,” David says, and if David thinks it’s a good idea, well, Casey supposes he’ll be going tomorrow. “You want to come over here or am I a taxi service picking you up.”

“I like to think of it as limo service.”

Casey giggles a little. “Of course you would.” David shakes his head.

“What can I say?” Miles shrugs. “I’m just trying to live the dream of being Miss Daisy. Can you drive me to the nearest Piggly-Wiggly after the center?”

“You are so weird, dude,” Rick says. “What does that even mean?”

“ _Driving Miss Daisy_!” Miles looks affronted. “That movie is a _classic_.”

“Never heard of it,” Rick says, with a shrug. “You heard of it, Casey?”

Casey nods his head, biting back another giggle. “I haven’t seen it. I know what it is, though. Piggly-Wiggly, that’s a grocery store.”

“I know what Piggly-Wiggly is, I just don’t know why Brown wants to go there!”

“ ’Cause that’s just what Miss Daisy does.”

“But that don’t make any damn sense to me at all,” Rick says. “You just make shit up.”

“I do not! Watch the damn movie!” Miles shakes his head. “While you take notes.”

“I’m not taking any kind of notes about some movie about driving to a Piggly-Wiggly. That’s just the stupidest thing to make a movie about I ever heard.”

“I don’t think it’s just about that,” Casey says. “We should get it some time, though.”

“I’ll make popcorn. My dad will inevitably leave the house,” David says with a grin.

“I like popcorn,” Casey says. “We should see if it’s on the Netflix!”

“We could watch it right now.” David nods.

“That would be _great_!” Casey agrees, because movies are much better than the conversation veering back towards anything remotely relating to _him_.

“Aw, _man_ ,” Rick says. “How’d I get sucked into Big Gay Movie Night?”

“You’re at the house of the Big Gay,” David deadpans.

“You shouldn’t call Cherry that, Karofsky!” Miles protests, injured–sounding. “Cherry here can’t help how overweight he is!”

“They _force-feed_ me!” Casey says, bouncing in place a little as he cuts his eyes over at David. “It’s awful. I’m gonna have to wear mu-mus.”

“It’s true. And now I’m going to make popcorn with extra butter,” David adds, laughing. “Go see if it’s on there.”

While David starts the popcorn to popping, Casey scrolls through The Netflix and lets out a little hoot of triumph when he finds _Driving Miss Daisy_ on the instant watch list. “Found it! It’s on here!”

Rick groans. “Great, that’s the best news.”

“Shut up, Foots. No one asked you.”

“Some people care about my opinion, _Brown_.”

“Nobody here!” Miles laughs, slouching in the large recliner. “Now this? This is a chair.”

“Don’t spill anything in it,” David says. “My dad will hunt you down.” David sits down on the couch beside Casey, holding a large bowl full of popcorn in one hand and a bunch of napkins in the other. “Are we ready?”


End file.
